


The Books Between the Bookends

by futureboy (PokeRowan)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Bisexuality, Haphephobia, M/M, Prophetic Visions, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PokeRowan/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: The first thing out of Ryan's mouth when they first meet is: "don't touch me." Sure, he's always gonna do his best to be accommodating towards the guy, but Jeremy can't forget about the sting of his and Ryan's first interaction, despite how they pretend otherwise for the camera.Ryan's a snarky, yet repressed, and incredibly stubborn idiot. Jeremy's just trying to be bisexual in his own time. (And all their friends are the worst people in the world.)[AU where Ryan can see the future.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]
> 
> This is basically a shameless self-indulgence of my favourite premise, 'one person has superhuman ability, literally everything else is the same'. Definitely inspired by [this YouTube short film](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VESAIuEJ9T4).
> 
> Any Briticisms are my own. Beta-d by the wonderful [happyexothermicreaction](http://happyexothermicreaction.tumblr.com/).

The first thing out of Ryan's mouth when they first meet in person is: "don't touch me."

Jeremy retracts his hand like he's been burned.

"Oh, no," Ryan says, cringing, "ah, I mean... I don't like being touched. Sorry. It's... nice to finally meet you."

Jeremy asks Jack about it later. It's only his first day (officially, anyway) in the office. He can't have already pissed off Ryan, and he did sound genuinely apologetic about his outburst, but it didn't take away from the sting.

Jack shrugs amicably. "He's always been like that for as long as I've known him. Who knows why he moved to fuckin' Austin if he doesn't like _skin_ , though, goddamn."

"I wish you hadn't said 'skin' like that," Jeremy snorts, and feels better.

Things progress pretty well after that, all things considering. It doesn't take more than a few weeks for work to stop feeling like _work_. Sure, it was hard sometimes, and they had schedules and deadlines and _a metric fuck-tonne of editing skills to learn so he could catch up with everyone else, Lil J_ , but it's – it's kinda fun.

It's a lot of fun, actually.

Even when exhaustion clings to his bones, or even when things haven't gone well in terms of software compliance, Jeremy can count on that feeling of triumph to settle into his bloodstream and spread. He's already sorta proud of the stuff he's been accomplishing.

His co-workers make things so much easier to adjust to, especially. He even forgets, mostly, about his awkward first encounter with Ryan.

Once you get used to his hovering and careful distance-keeping... Well. He's really not that bad a guy at all. Definitely much more charismatic on face-cam and over mic than in person, because at the end of the day, dude just doesn't wanna be touched.

Sometimes Jeremy notices little things. And they are minuscule, really - the way that Ryan leans towards people, even after telling them he doesn't want to be touched, for example. It takes him weeks after his first observation to see that Ryan doesn't _always_ flinch when Michael brushes against his hand with a bare forearm or wrist. Unintentional, of course, but still close quarters.

Or when Ryan brings lunch or snacks or drinks for everyone, and passes Geoff a coffee, and doesn't always manage to avoid contact during the transference of the paper cup.

Jeremy hates it.

He can't help but take it personally, actually. It's not something he can just ask about straight up, either, which is infuriating. Like he could _ever_ set foot back in the building if he approached Gavin with the phrase: "hey, has Ryan ever touched you?" It was out of the fucking question.

On days where he'd been particularly receptive to Ryan's evasive tactics – letting people go through the door first, waiting until after peak lunch times to head to the kitchen, even staying late and coming early some days to avoid the busyness – Jeremy would curl up on the couch at home, grab whichever of his cats were nearest, and play Borderlands until he didn't feel so pissed off anymore.

 

* * *

 

"--Now stop being such a cocksucker and  _go home_ \--!"

Jeremy almost wants to back out of the Achievement Hunter office and close the door again, but curiosity gets the better of him. He commits to entering the room.

"What's going on? Who's getting fired?"

Ryan was sat on the couch, with his head in his hands and his ankles pushed together, like he's trying to make himself very, very small. Geoff's scowl screams _annoyed_ , but it was most likely masking some serious concern; Mica, bless her, looks positively terrified.

"Ryan's sick," Geoff grimaces, "like, actually sick, _needs to take time off work_ sick."

Mica trains a deer-in-the-headlight expression on Jeremy: "I bumped into him and he threw up! That was all it took!" she says hysterically. "Ryan, god, I'm super sorry--"

"It's okay," Ryan croaks at the floor, "I'll be fine, just... gimme a minute."

"I'm gonna find someone to drive you home," Geoff decides. "Mica, grab his shit together. Lil J, can you stay and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid?"

"Tall order, but sure," he says, not really putting any heart into the joke.

Geoff waits until Mica leaves, then slams the door behind him.

"...You puke?" Jeremy asks sympathetically.

Ryan nods, then groans and thinks better of it. "Uh-huh."

"That's so gross, that sucks," he begins. He tries to take a seat next to him on the couch, to offer solidarity and whatever.

Ryan bolts upright into a standing position, swaying dangerously: "don't touch me."

"Okay, dude, sorry, I wasn't trying to!" Jeremy says, putting his hands up and trying not to feel too irritated, because  _o_ _h my god_ , Ryan really did look like shit. "Sit back down, man, I'll get out of your way. Damn, Ryan. You've gone really fucking white."

"I am white," Ryan mumbles half-heartedly. His fingers leap to his temple when Geoff crashes back through the door:

"Okay, asshole, Adam's gotta run an errand over your way so he'll drop you back..."

"What's the errand?" asks Jeremy.

Geoff jabs a finger at the six-foot heap of near-unconsciousness. Jeremy is reminded, briefly, of those inflatable dancing advertisements, and maybe how one would look if it wasn't doing its best that morning.

When Ryan returns next Monday, he looks considerably less pale, but that might be because he's traded the sickly skin tone for the World's Worst Eye Circles. He looks like a panda. Or maybe someone just finally punched him in the face for being so damn rude.

Jeremy doesn't mind the aversion to physical contact. In fact, he fully respects it. But that doesn't mean Ryan had to make him feel like he was diseased from the get-go.

It's difficult to tell if the guy is avoiding Mica, because she appears to be keeping her distance in her own mortified way. But he definitely tones down his interactions with Jeremy over the next couple weeks, and when they finally build back up to casual discussion, Jeremy can't seem to push the image of Ryan's vulnerability out of the back of his head.

 

* * *

 

They go out to celebrate, one time, just for the sake of celebrating. There isn't a big reason – it's just a nice day in July, and Achievement Hunter especially want to unwind. Geoff and Jack direct them all to a wicked nice place with a garden and lots of sunshine, and, most importantly, cold booze.

Finding designated drivers was the opposite of an issue; it's a weekday. Some of them actually have plans tonight. Mica and Ryan sit in solidarity with glasses of Coke. Matt's nursing a water.

Lil J has decidedly not been.

"She just has such dead eyes!"

"Yeah, but you gotta admit, that's a body to die for."

"No!" Michael grins (a little too loud with intoxication, slapping the wood of the bench for emphasis), "can you imagine fucking her and staring into those eyes? They're _soulless_!"

"Flip 'er over, then," Gavin suggests. Lindsay laughs suddenly as she's sipping her drink, snorting cider out of her nose.

"Are you talking about the tits woman from the Let's Play today?" says Geoff, leaning over.

"Absolutely we are. See, Geoff agrees with me--"

"I never said that!"

Michael looks up from where he's pressing napkins into Lindsay's face. " _Thank_ you."

"Yeah, what do you know about fuckin' beautiful women anyway, Jeremy?"

Jeremy pulses with faux-anger. "You shut your mouth, Ramsey, I could if I wanted. I just... don't... want."

Admittedly, the beginning of that sentence was delivered more strongly than the end of it. Much to the confusion of Mica, Ryan, Matt, and Jack, who were carrying on their own conversation, Geoff cackles with glee and sets off everyone else.

"Fuck you guys," Jeremy says, but there's no animosity in it.

"I agree that she's got a great rack," Lindsay adds on thickly, "but I also agree with not fucking her. I don't even know if she'd make any noises."

"What, she'd just open her mouth and nothing would come out?!" Gavin squeaks.

Ryan grabs his car keys. "Are y'all talking about having sex with that lady from the video?" he says cautiously, a smile playing on his face. "Maybe it's time to wrap this up."

Lindsay stands up. "That might be a good idea. Quit whilst we're ahead."

"Before you spray anything else from your nasal cavities," adds Michael, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Jeremy? You wanna ride?" Ryan says.

Jeremy is momentarily distracted. Ryan doesn't often directly address him outside of work hours.

"Yeah, c'mon, Lil J, come ride with us," Michael prods. He sounds, when drunk, distinctly more New Jerseyan.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he decides, "thanks." He has to take his eyes off Ryan's hand, where the man's digits are dangling the car keys invitingly, so that he can stand up without swaying too much. He's not even had that much this afternoon. Unfortunately, in the summer, a hard day of work and a couple of drinks in the sun can result in a dizzying state of affairs.

Success is sweet. Jeremy calls shotgun, very steadily.

It's odd, he notes, as the Joneses keep up easy conversation, in that Ryan has a strange manner of switching between drive and neutral; after correcting the stick, he puts his right hand on his knee. It's as if he's minimising the possibility that Jeremy will reach out and bump him.

He's not sure what that means. There's just enough warm alcohol scrambling his brain so that he can't make sense of it.

"Thanks for the ride, Ryebread!" Michael crows, clambering out of the backseat. The rush of cool air when he opens the door is absolutely delightful. "See ya, Lil J!"

Lindsay beams, as cheerful as ever. "Yeah, thanks Ryan. See you tomorrow, you two."

"See ya later," Jeremy grins.

Ryan mumbles his farewells, doing that thing relaxed drivers do when they flex their hand as a wave.

Jeremy blinks, and his eyes close for a little too long.

"You okay there, J?"

"Oh," he says, starting, "yeah, I'm cool. It's a right at the end of this road."

"Ah, I put it in the satnav already."

They sit in silence. Jeremy identifies it, in a distant part of his brain, as a silence that _he_ thinks is comfortable, and that _Ryan_ probably thinks is comfortable, but because they're unsure how the other feels about the lack of sound, there's an awkward need to fill it.

He doesn't want to ask about the no-touching.

"How d'ya feel about the future?" he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

Ryan chuckles. "Jeez, Jeremy, that's a bit of a loaded question. Where did that come from?"

"I get excited thinking about it," he reasons, and will definitely be embarrassed about the whole idea on the way to work tomorrow.

"Jesus. How much did you have?"

"Not much!" he protests.

"Oh, you just wax philosophical about times to come totally sober, then."

Jeremy pauses. "I think... I think it's gonna be a good one."

Ryan looks pensive, staring at the slowing passing of asphalt. Absently, he changes into 'park' as they approach Jeremy's apartment, and returns his right hand to his knees. "Do you think about that kinda thing a lot?"

Even though they're parked up, he still won't make eye contact, electing instead to stare at his guarded palms. For some reason, it's infuriating.

"Do you?" he murmurs.

Ryan finally glances over at him, surprise flashing across his features. Jeremy is suddenly really worried he's said totally the wrong thing.

"Thanks for the ride," he says, almost apologising as he gets out of the car, "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Leaning in, with the door still open, the two lock eyes; Ryan looks striking in the sunset-streaked sky, with a miscellaneous astonishment painted across his face.

Jeremy closes the passenger side door, and heads inside. Stupid mouth with its stupid questions. _Stupid_.

 

* * *

 

The impending change in seasons brings the beginnings of illness out in everyone. Every other day, someone seems to be missing when they said they'd be featured in a production. Something's going around, and Jeremy is determined not to catch it.

There's a real shitty day when Geoff doesn't come in, because he caught the bug from his kid, and Matt and Trevor barely even bother to ring in because everyone knows they're sick. There are a few (largely incoherent) authoritative emails exchanged, albeit with very limited instruction.

Jeremy _hates_ being antsy.

Presently, it's him, Jack, and Ryan in the Achievement Hunter office. There's really not a lot to do.

" _God_ ," he whines, "I'm so fuckin' sick of editing."

"You wanna suggest something better?" asks Jack. His voice is level, but it might be because his tone obscures a certain amount of testiness. "Until Gav, Michael, and Lindsay get back, there's not a lot else we can fill our time with."

"Yeah," Jeremy concedes, "I know... I'm just-- it feels too empty in here."

Ryan makes a noise from behind his terminal. If Jeremy were to try to interpret Ryan-grunt, he might translate it along the lines of: ' _I'm fine with the emptiness_ '.

Asshole.

He backs up his work, inserting the flash drive with a little more force than necessary.

"Man, I bet Geoff is shitting his pants over the work he's missing," says Jack.

"Yeah, I bet," Jeremy replies, "good job I finished mine."

He stands up, stretches, and disconnects the flash drive.

"Wait, are you serious? Good job, Lil J."

"Thanks," he grins at Jack, "I'm gonna take a quick break, though, I gotta pee so bad."

"Hang on, bring your flash drive over here, if it's the Cloudberry Kingdom one I've gotta send it on."

"No problem, buddy," Jeremy says, electing to walk around to Jack's desk in the corner, rather than throw the flash drive over the death trap of ports and wires. He knows he'd never find it ever again if it fell down behind Gavin's monitor. He passes Ryan's computer, where the other man is totally engaged, sitting adjacent to Jack's station, and extends the drive: "here you go!"

"Thanks, dude."

"No problem," Jeremy repeats. He points and walks backwards for good measure, hoping the silliness will raise Jack's mood a bit; at the exact same moment, Ryan reverses in his office chair, with every intention of standing up.

They collide. The sudden rise from where he was sitting, coupled with Jeremy twisting in alarm at the last second, means Ryan accidentally headbutts him clean in the temple.

"Oh, shit!" Jeremy yells, tripping backwards over the legs of the chair and falling flat on his ass.

" _Fuck_ ," Ryan says, alarm lacing his voice, "I am _so_ sorry--"

Jeremy isn't listening anymore.

The office disappears in an excruciating flash of white pain, threatening to split open his skull and spill the brain cells he didn't lose playing college football – dimly, he's aware that he's pressing the balls of his palms to his eyes to try and release the pressure. His tailbone throbs, so he tries to focus on that instead, instead of the worst, most out-of-the-blue migraine he's ever experienced taking over his entire body--

And then the blinding light dies down, and he's aware that he's trying to restrain a strangled yell, and he's sitting on the carpet of the Achievement Hunter office where Ryan had left him.

" _Shit!_ "

It comes out hoarsely.

Jack's reaching to help him up. "Holy fuck, dude, are you alright?"

"Yeah," he replies, gritting his teeth and wrenching a hand away from his face. Today was not going to be the day where he pried out his own eyeballs. "But I just got the worst headache of all time--" Jack pulls him up off the floor-- "and I _really_ banged my ass!"

"Would it be the first time your ass was banged?" Jack laughs.

Jeremy would find it funny, if he firstly wasn't trying to make the room come into focus, and secondly-

"Oh, fuck."

-he really had to puke all of a sudden.

The mad dash to the nearest toilet barely registers; neither does the ache in his abs as he violently disposes of the entire contents of his stomach. It's disgusting, but steadying himself with both hands on the restroom tile is necessary – especially when he needs to catch his breath.

He hears the door open, and footsteps, and fails to suppress a gag.

"Lil J? You doing okay?"

"Hey, Gav," he says weakly.

"Eurgh, Christ, have you vommed--?" Gavin begins, interrupting himself with a half-assed cough of his own. "If you give that bug to me, I'm gonna be so mad--"

"I don't think it's the bug," Jeremy says adamantly. "Ryan headbutted me, I bashed my tailbone, and then I had to puke. It was really weird."

He flushes, grabs some toilet paper, and opens the cubicle door.

"I thought I saw you dashing into the bog, but you look _spectacularly_ crappy," Gavin says. He furrows his brow, examining Jeremy's face: "are you sure you're alright? Reckon it's concussion?"

It _could_ be.

"I think you'd better take the afternoon off."

The headache was still thrumming, spreading across his whole skull. Jeremy half expects to touch his ear and have his fingertips come back bloodied.

"Yeah," he says. "I think I might."

 

* * *

 

When he comes back to work in a couple of days, August has fully ticked by, like he was in cryostasis rather than bed. September in Austin is still ninety-five degrees on an average day, but Jeremy feels like he's been in a cold sweat rather than a fever sweat since the collision.

Whilst curled up in bed with Scooter over the last 48 hours, he'd mentally prepared himself to be avoided by Ryan for the rest of his life. Should he apologise? It was an accidental touch, after all, but nevertheless, it _was_ a touch. And for that matter, he wasn't even sure if Ryan would want to hear an apology.

So it's a hell of a surprise for Ryan to approach him when the others are taking lunch, and say: "can I talk to you?"

Jeremy looks up from his PC. "Huh?"

"Please," says Ryan, and puts a hand lightly on his shoulder. It’s avoiding the skin, but still warm through his t-shirt.

Well, that settles it then.

"Sure," says Jeremy, maybe a little more high-pitched than usual, and follows Ryan out of the office and into one of the conference rooms. He swears internally, alarmed, when Ryan gently lets the door click shut.

"What's going on, Ryan? Is this about the headbutting thing? I was actually tryin' to figure out a way to say sorry today, so--"

"If I said something crazy," Ryan interrupts, setting a can of Diet Coke down on the desk, "if I said something unbelievable and stupid and ridiculous... Would you listen?"

Jeremy takes a seat.

"Well, yeah, I mean—I don't know if I'd think you were telling the truth, but I'd totally hear you out," he says carefully.

Ryan exhales, and pulls up a chair. Across the table from him, he steeples his fingers: " _Icanseethroughtime_."

"Wha?" says Jeremy intelligently.

"I can see through time," he enunciates, "I can see the future."

Jeremy looks for a sign that he's lying: a camera; an eye twitch; a smothered laugh.

"Okay," he says slowly, finding none. "So what does that have to do with me?"

Ryan's neck snaps up so fast that he's probably given himself whiplash. "Wait, you're not freaked out?"

"If this is a way to try and get me to be gullible on camera, it's a really bad premise," he points out. "And I've seen enough superhero movies to know that when someone confides in you, _you gotta listen to that shit_. Either that, or it's the set up to a really bad pickup line."

The tiniest hint of a flush rises up Ryan's neck. "Ah, it's not, I swear."

"So where do I come in?" Jeremy says simply.

Somehow, the roles have completely reversed in the space of a few sentences; opposite him, where Ryan was leaning forwards intently, he's now playing with his can of soda. And Jeremy is leaning towards him with his face resting in one hand, waiting for the rebuttal.

"Okay, so the thing is..."

Ryan exhales.

"The thing--"

"Start with how it works if you're having trouble, buddy," Jeremy grins. It’s hard to know whether he'll believe a single word, but it'll make for an entertaining tale regardless as to whether or not it's true. He wanted to know exactly how much detail had gone into the story.

"I guess it started when I started high school? It used to be if I met someone, I'd see the future, but then I realised that it was more complicated than that," Ryan explains. "I didn't get the sight-thing if I didn't touch them, and I figured out that if I make skin contact with someone, it sets them off."

"So you see shit like that _every time_ you bump into someone?!" Jeremy asks incredulously.

"Oh, God, no. I'd never get anything done. One touch, one vision."

Jeremy suddenly recalls the event: _"I bumped into him and he threw up! That was all it took!"_

"One barfing sesh?" he asks, feeling like he just had a past vision. The Anti-Ryan.

He chuckles, playing with the tab on his can of Diet Coke. "Hah. Yeah, that was the first time it happened with Mica since she started here, good eye. The reaction was just because it'd been a while, though."

"Bet your first week was fuckin rough, man."

"Eh, it kind of all happened really quickly. Gavin ran into me pretty much immediately, because he's an idiot, and it was actually... kinda easier after the first one."

Jeremy laughs outright. "Hair of the dog. But with handshakes. You fuckin' nerd."

Ryan huffs with mirth into his soda can.

"How far?"

"Hmm?"

"How far into the future can you see?”

Ryan sobers, far too quickly. “The end,” he says plainly.

“You see people _die--_?”

“Sometimes,” he interjects, “as a general rule, I'm pretty sure it's just the last interaction I have with them. Like, the final piece of the relationship. Conversations, fights, sometimes it's happy, and.... sometimes not.”

Jeremy rubs his temple. There's a raised bump there which hurts if he pokes it.

“So when we bumped into each other the other day?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” says Jeremy. “Well... What did you see?”

The lines around Ryan's eyes deepen; his expression switches to one which is almost angry, his features hardened and stony. Casting a cold stare at the conference table, and in a very small voice, he says: “...I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Right,” says Jeremy uneasily, “no man should know too much about his own future, right?”

Ryan _mm-hmm_ s into the dead space they've created, and Jeremy flounders. It was Schrödinger's Awkwardness, that tipsy car ride all over again. Fill the space, fill the space, _fill the space_ \--

“Can you prove it?” he blurts out.

There's a jingle from under the table as Ryan fumbles around in his jeans pockets. “I can if you come to lunch with me.”

Jeremy quirks an eyebrow and smirks. “Now I'm _really_ starting to suspect this is a pick up line.”

Crimson creeps up Ryan’s neck a little further this time.

(He tries not to stare.)

They end up in P. Terry's, waiting in line to order hamburgers. “Isn't this a little unsanitary?” Jeremy asks. “If you do end up proving it, it's not gonna work out well for you _or_ the burger joint.”

Counting out change, Ryan chuckles. “I should be fine after the other day. The last time I had a bad reaction was Mica, and that was what, April? Hadn't happened for a while, is all.”

“How often do you get it to happen?”

Ryan gives him a look which reads ' _you're just full of questions, aren't you_ '. “Once a week, once every couple of weeks. I usually try to fit it in whilst grocery shopping, people are easy to bump into there.”

“So why aren't we in the grocery store...?”

“Because I'm hungry, obviously. And you insisted on picking the place so I couldn't hire actors! Now shhhhh, I gotta concentrate...”

He steps forwards, ordering his food – and then, as the server delivers his total, he purposely drops a handful of change into her hands, creating the contact.

Jeremy saw him wince.

“I'm impressed,” he says, once they'd sat down to wait for their food, “that was very discreet. Instead of being a touch-starved weirdo, you were just a clammy-change weirdo.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, obviously there are different levels of 'weirdo',” Jeremy reasons, entirely seriously. “You got harmless, which is, like, 'smell the post' weird. Then you've got harm _ful,_ which is more 'creep on your girlfriend' weird.”

“Where do 'clammy-change' and 'touch-starved' fit in on the scale?”

“Oh, 'touch-starved' is above 'clammy-change', but they're _both_ above 'smell the post',” Jeremy says gleefully.

Ryan makes another _hhmm_ noise, but it's unclear as to whether he's actually offended or not. It felt like a breakthrough.

“So what's gonna happen? Tell me the future, Ry.”

He blinks owlishly, as if he'd forgotten the purpose of their lunch break: “oh, right. Well, that girl's gonna come over and apologise, because you wanted a Sprite, but their soda machine is broken.”

“Okay.”

“And,” Ryan smiles, his shoulders shaking, “when she gets back behind the counter, she's gonna slip over like a cartoon character and laugh at herself.”

“ _Noooooo_.”

“Oh yes,” he laughs, and is interrupted by approaching footsteps.

“Sir? Are you order nineteen?”

Jeremy looks up in disbelief. “Oh, yeah, that's me.”

The girl is maybe college age, with dark black hair tied back under her cap. She looks like she's preparing for the worst. “I'm real sorry, sir, but the soda machine is out of commission, and it says on your receipt that you ordered a Sprite?”

He tries to keep his eyes from widening comically. “Oh, don't worry about it, then, that's not an issue at all...”

“We can refund you, or it's only a little extra if you wanted to get a milkshake--”

“Nah,” he says, waving dismissively, “it's all good. Just keep it, it's not that much.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally. Thanks for letting me know.”

Huh. The server walks back towards the counter, weaving in and out of the tables: “watch this!” Ryan whispers, nudging Jeremy's foot under their chairs. And, surely enough – hilariously enough – she slides across half of the row of cash registers, releasing a wobbly shriek as she crashes against the tiles.

The reaction is instantaneous – the staff and customers who rush to her aide quickly realise that she's okay, judging by her hysterical cackling. Jeremy lets out an unattractive snort, and Ryan tries to stifle his laugh into his shoulder.

“Okay,” Jeremy wheezes, “I believe you. That was to the _letter_ , dude.”

He's met with a triumphant smirk, which only grows as one of the cooks bellows: “order eighteen! Order nineteen!” over the chaos.

It's probably one of the coolest lunch dates Jeremy's ever been on. (He pretends that he didn't say the phrase 'lunch date' in his head.) Superpowers and burgers and slapstick. He's – really? - having a nice time with Ryan, and it's surprising, above everything else, because he's spent so long wondering why the dude seems to think he was contaminated. And Ryan had plucked an explanation out of thin air.

“You're freaking out less than I thought you would,” his driver ponders.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, poking the dashboard, “I just don't know how you'd fake that. Or choreograph it. I don't know, man, I even picked the place, it would be really hard to set up. If you did.”

“I didn't.”

“I know,” he says.

They share a look, and Jeremy isn't sure what it means.

When they get back to the office, the kitchen is deserted – surely they're late for something, but he really doesn't care what at this specific moment, because the whole saga unfolding over lunch had taken over his brain. “Ryan, wait,” he says, gesturing towards the fridge, “I gotta ask you somethin' else.”

“What?”

It's whispered at him, like he doesn’t want to be seen having close discussions with Lil J, of all people.

He pretends not to care. “You said 'one touch, one vision'.”

Ryan nods: “I did. That's not a question.”

“My _question_ ,” Jeremy says patiently, “is that if we've already done that – are we good to touch from now on?”

Inwardly, he cringes, because _damn_ , that came out way worse than he thought it would. But Ryan doesn't notice, or doesn't care. “I mean, gosh, yeah. But I'd rather not. It encourages other people to try, and... It, uh. Kind of makes me jumpy.”

It was fair enough.

When did his life get so teenage again? Here he was, feeling rejected in the cafeteria. Ew.

“I thought that might be what was up,” he says. “Don't worry about it, buddy, I'll still keep my distance. And I really am sorry for the accid--”

He's turning away, taking steps back towards the office door, but Ryan catches his sleeve. He's never felt a touch _burn_ before, but his bicep tingles with residual energy, maybe – a future, uncertain.

“Wait...!”

Jeremy freezes. He's not making eye contact, though; he's staring at one of the couches lining the kitchen corridors.

“I.... You were right. When we were getting lunch.”

“Huh?”

“I _am_ touch-starved,” Ryan murmurs. When Jeremy finally looks up, scanning his face, he looks a lot like how he did when he saw Mica's final interaction with him.

“They have, like, classes for that, right?” he starts, and then remembers: “ _oh_ , you couldn't touch the instructors or participants. Wait. Cuddle classes are out. Uhhhhh... What about--”

“Whatever you're going to suggest,” Ryan warns, “remember that _I don't want to see the fucking future._ ”

The hand on his forearm is warm. “I know, I know,” he says hastily, “I was gonna say... I was gonna say me.”

“You?”

“Yeah, _me_. Thanks, pal.”

“I didn't mean it like that. I just wasn't expecting the offer.”

“Come on, Ryan – I'm pretty sure avoiding touch leads to stuff like depression. It makes babies sad, I actually do know that. And besides,” he grins, “I don't know if you've noticed, but... I'm a cuddly guy.”

The door to the office opens. “Come _on_ , you jerkoffs,” Michael yells, “we gotta film Minecraft! Where've you even been?”

Jeremy wants to answer, but Michael darts back into the room without waiting for a response. “Uh,” he says, “listen, text me an evening you're free this week, and we'll hang out at mine or something.”

Ryan, to his credit, attempts to play off his diffidence with a casual shrug, but it's pretty easy to see that he's not as apprehensive as Jeremy thought he'd be.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon before a (minimally discussed) session of video games at Jeremy's apartment, he gets a brain thing, and he doesn't know if it's something _real_ bad, or something not to worry about.

One minute, he's staring at the GTA loading screen, and the next, it's like he's in a totally different room. He's horizontal. He's staring at the ceiling. By the lighting, it must be dawn; at least, when he turns over, because Jeremy is pretty sure he's in a damn big bed, it's an amber dawn which dances across Ryan's features. His eyelashes flicker, and the older man looks up through them, at _him_. He's framed by bedsheets and the early morning sun, and it doesn't look like he's shaved properly in the last couple days, and Jeremy wants to reach out and touch his face and see if this is real, and--

\--and

he's

back in the office,

staring at a game of GTA Online.

 _Oh, fuck_ , he thinks, shocked at himself. His internal judgment clashes between transmitting _the fuck kind of daydream was that?_ , or, possibly, _liiiittle bit gay for your colleague, there, buddy_.

“Lil J? You alright there?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles towards Michael, pinching the bridge of his nose, “just, uh, shooting pains.”

“Sounds like Gavin in the last heist.” There's an indignant _'oi!'_ from Michael's right: “yeah, that's right, you piece of shit, _you're_ a shooting pain.”

“Don't die, Jeremy,” says Lindsay, theatrically stretching her hand over her desk.

He boops her index finger with his own. “I won't. I'm too young and pretty to die.”

Ryan chokes, on the other side of the room, and has to excuse himself.

“Don't _you_ die on me, Ryan!” Jeremy yells at the door, whilst Lindsay loses her shit, “I need to kick your ass at Call of Duty tonight!”

“Oh, you hanging out together later?” asks Jack.

“Uh-huh.”

“Aw, that's sweet. It's like you're making progress,” says Geoff offhandedly.

And that makes Jeremy jerk his head up towards Geoff's desk. He's struck with an irrational paranoia that his co-worker's learned to read minds in the last ten minutes, and if that's the case, hey, wasn't the Ramsey he expected to have that gift. “ _What_?”

Geoff waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, y'know. Just, it seemed like you guys got off on the wrong foot, so it's cool to see the two of you doin' stuff. It's one thing to chat in content, but outside of work is good too... But, eh, what do I know.”

Apparently quite a bit, Jeremy thinks. None of the others seem to be on board with his analysis. This is with the exception of Gavin, who, despite adding his own “ _leave off, Geoff, they've always been mates_ ” to the murmured disagreements, shoots Jeremy a really odd look.

He was still thinking about it at six thirty, long after he'd headed home to a 'see you tonight' and the prospects of pissed off cats.

“You're not allergic, are you? Probably should've asked that earlier,” he says sheepishly.

The door is open and inviting, but Ryan still manages to make himself look really small and squeeze into the hallway. “Nah,” he smiles. “I like cats.”

“Sorry, guys,” Jeremy calls to Booker and Scooter, who are watching curiously from the living room doorway, “you're sharing me tonight.”

Ryan snorts.

“Plenty of love to go around, though, don't worry. Hey, dude, come through, make yourself at home.”

He's trying to play it cool, as though the idea isn't complete lunacy. Ryan collapses onto the couch, gazing thoughtfully at his living room, and Jeremy realises that his attitude is kinda like when you have a sex dream about someone you know, and then you can't look them in the eye.

You gotta look them in the eye - otherwise, they'll know. It's simple stuff.

_Play it cool, Dooley._

He tries to ask Ryan if he wants something to drink, because it's important to be a good host and make guests feel comfortable, but his fuckin' stupid mouth betrays him. “Does it work on cats?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Does it work on cats? The thing?”

“Oh, the visions? Nope. Just people.”

“Don't listen to him, you two,” he says, grabbing his Xbox controllers, and Ryan loses it. “Cats are people too, he doesn't know what he's talking about--”

“Shut up,” Ryan snickers.

He starts up a game of Zombies, and the banter feels like they're filming for work. Jeremy's been employed there for less than a year, but it's never been just him and Ryan behind the camera – it reminds him of how Michael and Gavin will cram themselves into a recording booth and lounge all over each other for an hour.

Maybe he should take it slower.

“ _Instaaaaakiiiiilll_ ,” hisses the game, to which Jeremy hisses ' _yessssssss_ ' and shuffles in his seat. Ryan flinches tremendously hard when their shoulders brush.

“Sorry,” he apologises, and viciously ignores the creeping thought that _Ryan especially didn't want to touch him_. “I was tryna ease you into it. You want warning next time..?”

“No,” says Ryan, his register slightly too high pitched.

Jeremy stares at him. “Then relax, dude,” he says, hoping his smile isn't too full-on, “I'm not gonna eat you--”

“Those guys might, though,” Ryan points, and oh, fuck. The zombies had swarmed his body.

“Nooooo!”

There's a flurry of button mashing and the sound of the knife slashing through meat in-game, and Ryan's laughing again, but it's not in laughs made of diaphragm spasms and shallow breaths, it had tone and substance. “That was so stupid!” he says disbelievingly.

“How can you laugh at a time like this?” Jeremy says, injecting his vocals with an exaggerated heartfelt performance. “I'm gettin' fuckin' _zombed_ , Ry! If you don't revive me, you've got years of therapy waiting for you down the line.”

“I'm pretty sure that's not part of the lore for Advanced Warfare at all,” says Ryan, and resuscitates him anyway.

Jeremy leans into his shoulder the tiniest bit more. Ryan doesn't react, or doesn't notice.

 

* * *

 

It's been a while since he's made a bad life choice, or maybe several, so he agrees when the guys from work invite him clubbing. And by guys, he means the Joneses, Andy, Gavin and Meg, and Barbara and Aaron, and they're all gonna have a wicked time hitting all those bars, and then dancing their little butts off.

He gets a bit carried away.

In the last bar, Michael cheers him prematurely when he returns to the table: “alright, Lil J!” he screeches, “way to get some!”

Gavin whirls around. “Whaaa?”

“Lil J and that guy over there were making out, idiot!” Michael crows, dangerously sloshing his drink around for emphasis. Gavin makes a bird noises and really _does_ spill his drink, in an embarrassingly large quantity.

Andy gives him a thumbs up; Barbara takes a more direct approach. “Was he... wearing lipstick?” she asks curiously, leaning in to examine his face.

Whoops. Jeremy swabs a thumb across his lips. “Ah, no,” he says sheepishly, “that was the girl I kissed before him.”

Meg squeals, Gavin squawks up an entire flock of bird calls, and Aaron has to clap a hand over his face to stop himself spluttering with laughter.

“Yes, Lil J!” Lindsay beams, and gives him a high five.

Later, during the taxi ride back, Andy and Michael ask how good they are to bring this up in videos. (Gavin probably agrees, but after the phrase “ _we can't let this goooo, we_ _will_ _rip you for it, boi,_ ” he tapers off into the incomprehensible.)

“It's not secret, it's just private,” he explains.

“Then we won't talk about how you love cock any more than usual,” says Lindsay, trying to look serious, and Andy lightly hits her in retribution.

Jeremy really loves his job.

 

* * *

 

He invites Ryan over again, because he's been streaming a survival-horror release, and he's a real fucking wimp when it comes to scary games. Hell, it's a Sunday. Jeremy's gonna work out, kick back with some editing until noon, and then shoo away his cats when they start eyeing up his lunch. And it almost works out – he gets as far as organising his PC layout in the living room so the two of them can work their way through all the jumpscares, and, satisfied with his work, casts some quick culinary sorcery in the kitchen.

“This isn't _for_ you, it's _my_ goddamn linguini,” he affectionately mumbles, and feels a sharp spike of pain run through his forehead.

It's a glimpse, a flash of something, but he doesn't know what. It could be his apartment, his living room, but it looks _fuller_ , with more pictures and video games and even a console he doesn't recognise. There are hands resting on the couch, and they're his hands, but they look slightly off. And Ryan is lounging next to him. He looks more at ease than Jeremy's ever seen him before.

_“Well, it's up to you, we can spend Thanksgiving with them or your folks.”_

_“I mean,” says Ryan, “we were invited for Christmas, too. And I still haven't met your family in the flesh yet.”_

_“Oh my god, Ry, my mom won't stop going on about when I'm gonna bring you up, she definitely wants to see you for herself--”_

_Ryan runs a hand over his face. “I feel like your uncle's gonna intimidate me with his beard, though.”_

_“Ah,” says Jeremy, “I'd go the other way. Tidy it up a bit. Seeing as you haven't bothered the last couple days.”_

_“You asshole. You love it.”_

_“I do,” he confesses, and stretches out his arm, about to rub the wayward stubble with the ridge of his index finger--_

Jeremy is distantly aware that he's dropped the glass he was filling into the sink.

He slides down the cupboard doors, scratching his temples with his fingertips until he's sure he has friction burns. The pain begins to ease. Blood, flooding through his eardrums, recedes; Booker and Scooter do _not_ sound happy.

“It's okay,” he murmurs, nudging a foot towards them and being rewarded with a slightly less feral hiss. “I'm okay...”

Which was a hell of a lie to be telling himself.

Come on. Time to be rational about this. What could it be? It wouldn't be impossible for Jeremy to have the same ability as Ryan, he supposes, but – oh, god, what if that was the last time he ever spoke to Ryan? Their last interaction? Maybe something real horrible happened after their chat.

He stops himself, knocking his head against the corner cupboards. _Don't be stupid._ Not only had he already had a brain thing – the image of Ryan and himself lying in bed burst into view, and he tried to wave it away – but this one hadn't even ended properly. There was no way that was their last moments together. And there was _definitely_ no way that there were two final interactions, because that just didn't make sense.

So the brain things were a glimpse into something else. Like... A less extreme version of what Ryan had. Something must be setting these off, and he tries not to freak out when he remembers the last one happened before Ryan came over the last time. Maybe it's anticipation? The slight nervousness which thrums through his veins, the result of an invitation into his living spaces and his spare time?

“Jesus, I can't tell him about this.”

Sitting up, his crosses his legs and pats his jeans, hoping the cats have calmed down. Booker immediately pads over to be fussed.

It was probably the headbutt. He'd never had any brain things before that. And, jeez, if Ryan had _passed on_ his ability to some lesser extent, he'd never touch anyone ever again. He'd probably be all noble about abstaining from touch and make himself real fuckin' ill.

(There was also the question of how Jeremy would bring up the fact that, _hey, Ryebread, been having some weirdass visions of us being domestic and gross, and I think it's your fault._ Because nothing could go wrong there in the slightest.)

He hauls himself up, the cats having decided that they were okay to entwine themselves around his calves and beg for pasta again, and picks the glass out of the sink.

When Ryan raps on the door an hour later, there's next to no evidence that he ever had a brain thing moment, and he intends to keep it that way.

“You're up with SOMA, pal,” he says. “I've been doing it on my channel and it's _so bad_ by myself.”

“Scared?”

“Oh, hell yeah, 'course I am. It's full of terrible decisions I would never make.”

“SOMA, huh. Is that by the people who made Amnesia?”

“Hooooo, boy, yeah. They love their shitty door-opening mechanics.”

So they settle down, with Ryan taking control of the mouse, and start to play the scary game.

Ryan's commentary is always a little more restrained than Jeremy's. He says things like: “why the hell _wouldn't_ you run for the hills _immediately_ after the not-doctor tells you that he's unqualified? This guy deserves to be in a horror game if he's that much of a dumbass to begin with.” Which, to be honest, Jeremy would probably say more concisely, but Ryan has such a way with words and a gentle incredulity to his tone that it would probably complement Jeremy's observations, should they ever record a video without anyone else.

Twenty minutes in, he stretches his legs. “You want a Coke?” he asks, heading to the fridge.

Ryan glances away from the screen, surprised. “Yeah, please,” he says, “I didn't think you were a big fan.”

“It's more I just don't drink soda that often,” he calls, grabbing one of the cans from where he'd crammed them into the vegetable drawer, “but I knew you were coming over, so I got some in. You want a glass?”

“Ah, no, thank you.”

He wanders back towards the PC setup. The other man is focusing on the game again, trying not to kill the robot he'd just found, but there's something about the look on his face that says SOMA isn't what's piqued his interest.

Jeremy chews the inside of his bottom lip. He notes that Ryan is sitting directly where he was in the brain thing he had earlier, and berates himself silently when he has to hold back his hand. _Jesus, come_ _on_ _. Don't spontaneously touch the jumpy guy's stubble, Dooley, get ahold of yourself._

“Something's making bad machine noises, dude,” he says, sitting back down on Ryan's right and setting the Coke does with a metallic _thunk_.

“Probably the bad machines.”

“Alright, asshole,” Jeremy laughs, and then, when something jumps out at them on screen, flinches and changes to, “oh, _God_!”

He strikes out an arm to clutch at the limb wildly thrashing the mouse about.

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy!”

“Kill it, kill it, kill it--”

“We've _been_ through this, I can't kill it! It's like Amnesia, all we can do is hide--”

“--Do that then!”

Their character crawls behind a wall of twisted debris. Despite the cacophonous hyperventilation (“shut the _fuck_ up, Simon!”), the enormous, murder-hungry robot passes by.

They exhale.

Then Ryan starts to laugh into the ball of his palm.

“What?” Jeremy demands, “what's funny?”

“You,” Ryan chokes out. It's contagious; the type of laughter where one of you gets set off, and it feels too natural to follow, even though you're out of the loop. “You went so _Boston_...!”

“No, I didn't! Did I?”

“You fucking did, that was straight-up Scared Bostonian. Full Boston. ' _Oh, Gawd!_ ',” he wheezes.

Jeremy, who remembers that he's still gripping Ryan's forearm with residual terror, retracts his hand and hits him on the shoulder. “I do _not_ sound like that!”

“Pfft, ' _I do nawt sound like--_ '“

“I hate you,” Jeremy lies.

 

* * *

 

Gavin, of all people, strikes up oddly perceptive conversation with him, when they've both come in early to set up for a busy day ahead.

“So, Lil J,” he says. “You and Ryan. When did that become a thing?”

“Huh?” says Jeremy, probably a little too rapidly.

“You and Ryan,” he repeats. It's not innocently whatsoever. “You're hanging out, you're teaming up more in Let's Plays, and you've kinda been being really bloody weird around each other.”

“Like how?”

Gav shrugs. “Dunno. But it feels really English of you. Lots of awkwardness and not a lot of action happening.”

“You make it sound like we're really bad in bed together,” Jeremy snorts.

“Well...”

Jeremy stares. “...Oh, come on.”

Gavin stares right back, like a challenge.

“You can't seriously think...”

“It _is_ some Jane Austen crap, you can't deny that.”

“Name _one_ book by Jane Austen,” he retorts.

“Saw the film of Pride and Prejudice. Keira Knightley was in it. That bloke she marries after arguing with the whole two hours is a bit familiar.”

“Gavin,” Jeremy says seriously, “I'm from the East Coast. I can promise to you that _I'm_ definitely not doing any of that repressed British bullshit.”

“Alright. Keep me updated,” Gavin sniggers, and (surprisingly) keeps his mouth shut about the whole conversation, like it never took place.

 

* * *

 

Halloween comes and goes in a flash, with minimal gossiping about how Jeremy goes 'Full Boston' when he's jumpy – and by that, it means Ryan mentioned it in a video at one point, and everyone keeps trying to scare him indefinitely, for the rest of the foreseeable future. Lil J will _not_ be responsible for his actions if Joel leaps out at him in the Rooster Teeth kitchen again.

And then Extra Life happens, and Kdin's birthday, and so many more video game nights (they're at the point now where Jeremy can lay his feet over Ryan's lap, which is obtusely comfortable), and wow, November is a really exhausting, speedy month.

He and Ryan decide to hang out one last time before he goes back to his parents' house.

“Yours? Mine? Weeknight or weekend?”

“Lunch?” Ryan counters. So they go to lunch.

There’s been a lot of fast food runs at work recently, and both of them are kind of sick of looking at diner decor, so they duck into a McDonald's for supplies and sprawl out in the park. Ryan claims half a bench for himself and his food. He shoots a questioning look at Jeremy when the latter balances on the back of the bench, feet planted precariously on the actual seat, but seems to bite back any height jokes he was considering.

“So you're heading to Georgia?”

“Yeah, it's been a couple of years since I spent Thanksgiving there, so I really wanna go back and spend it with my folks.”

“It's too bad our time off doesn't line up.”

November in Austin is still seventy degrees or so, which Jeremy still finds absolutely foul, because when he goes home in a couple of days it's going to be close to freezing in the evenings. Jeremy's flying tomorrow and spending five days in Boston. Ryan's heading out in three days to spend four days in Columbus, GA. Plus, the days off before and after don't quite match up, so... They probably won't see each other for more than a week, which will definitely be strange now they've started this ' _come over to play video games and sit really close to me_ ' arrangement.

He takes a second to wince at how he has no idea what's happening in his life anymore.

“Yeah. Too bad,” Ryan echoes, thoughtfully eating a french fry.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Only if I get to ask you something,” is the instantaneous reply.

“Fuck, sure. Why not.”

Another french fry, and a little approving nod. “Proceed.”

“What's the best vision you ever saw?” asks Jeremy. He hopes to god it's not too intrusive, but he really wants to know.

“The _best_ vision?” Ryan repeats. He stares across the green expanse of the park; not concentrating on any people, but with a gaze stretching over years instead of yards. “Um. Lindsay's.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Ryan. “She's, uh.... Hosting a barbeque. And I think she might be pretty close to seventy.”

“ _Seventy_?” Jeremy splutters, “dude, that's awesome! You're gonna know the Joneses for so freaking long!”

He gets a grin from that. “Yup. Michael's in the back yard, arguing with Gavin over how to cook those dumb aluminum foil bananas properly. And oh my god, there are kids _everywhere_. Swarming the place. So many people over, and so many kids.”

From his perch on the bench, Jeremy looks down; Ryan's looking up at him, like he needs permission to continue, so he nods slightly and keeps his mouth shut. It doesn't seem appropriate to interrupt, all of a sudden.

“So she's got Barbara on her left side, and a little girl on her lap on the right, and Andy's sitting opposite – wow, he gets, like, stick-skinny with age. And I'm obviously leaving, because I hug her, and ruffle the kid's hair, and she beams at me when I grab the door. But mostly I remember the orange light. I guess I just associate that with summer evenings in Austin, now, but even in my head it felt pretty good.”

Jeremy doesn't know what to say.

He manages to murmur: “...that's sweet.”

Ryan crumples up the cardboard which his fries used to sit in. “Yeah.”

It takes a couple of seconds, but Jeremy finally snaps them out of their little reverie: “your go,” he says, at a much higher volume.

Ryan jumps. “Hmm?”

“To ask me a question. I did agree to it, I can't back out now.”

“Oh, right! Uh, let's see. I feel bad now,” he smiles sheepishly, glancing up to where the other was sitting, “mine's gonna sound really mean.”

“Nah. Go for it.”

“When we first met,” says Ryan, slowly, “did you like me?”

He swallows, and, just as slowly, replies, “uh... No.”

Ryan makes a noise which sounds like a casual 'oh', but looks like he's been positively _crushed_.

“I can explain!” he adds, jumping in before any permanent damage is done, “I mean, I was definitely disappointed when your first sentence was literally 'don't touch me'. I'd spent ages watching your stuff and... it really _stung_. Like, badly.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” says Ryan. He sounds tremendously guilty.

“I know you didn't, pal,” he replies. “It kinda felt like it in my head, though. I'm really glad we're okay now.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

He sounds like he means it, so Jeremy nudges his shoulder with a knee that's around the same level, considering their seating. “Another round?”

“Sure thing.”

He thinks for a minute, swinging his feet: “So. Visions. Can they change? Or are they definitely going to happen, whatever you do?”

“You're asking all the questions which require the actual use of my brain this afternoon,” Ryan chuckles. “They don't _change_ , from what I can tell – and even that's not very easy, because, you know, 'one touch, one vision', I can't double check all of this stuff. But I do know that when I've met a new person, and their last interaction is the same time as someone else's, I'll suddenly notice them in the scene. Blaine's at that party of Lindsay and Michael's, right? I just didn't notice him there the first time round.”

“That's so cool. Damn, Ryan. You should write out observations in a little book or something.”

Ryan smirks. “It's my turn.”

“Hit me.”

He turned, resting an arm on the back on the bench: “is it true,” he asked, “that you're bisexual?”

Jeremy blinks, and sits down on the bench properly, bringing them down to the same level.

“Yeah,” he says, very carefully. “My question: why'd you wanna know?”

Ryan looks taken aback, but at the end of the day, he's a sucker for back-and-forth formats like this, so an amused expression settles in his features. “Don't be mad at them, but I heard Michael going crazy at Gavin about it. Gavin wanted to make jokes about it on-camera, but Michael was letting him have it about how it was 'your private life', and 'not his right to tell the audience shit like that'. They didn't know I heard them, though.”

A warm feeling grows in his chest; his co-workers were trying to make it natural for him, in their own strange ways.

“I'm not mad,” he says firmly. “That's really quite nice.”

His phone goes off, interrupting them; it's his sister, telling him she's excited to see him tomorrow.

“Ah, Ryan, buddy... I really gotta go home and pack. Sorry to cut this short.”

“That's okay,” Ryan replies, and they both stand up, McDonald's packaging crinkling in their hands, to head towards Ryan's car. “It was nice to take some time out to do... _this_. It's a whole lot quieter than lunch at work, anyways.”

Jeremy makes an _mm-hmm_ noise in agreement, aims a greasy paper ball at the trash can, and hears Ryan snicker when he misses and has to go retrieve it.

“I have an extra question,” he says when Jeremy jogs back to catch up. Jeremy's looking at him quizzically, wondering what else there is left to say, when Ryan casually asks: “are you gonna miss me?”

It hit him in the chest with all the force of a falling cinder block. “No,” he laughs, feeling winded, “I'll be glad to have you out of my hair for a while. What's a trip home, if not to get away from your axe-crazy work colleague?”

“It's a _boring_ trip, is what it is!”

“Ah, shut _up_ , Ry.”

And that's what the ride back to Jeremy's is like. Lots of bickering with no real ill intent behind it. He hates the word 'banter', _especially_ hates how horrible it sounds when Gavin says it, but it occurs to him that this back-and-forth was it.

Ryan walks him to his front door. It makes something at the forefront of his ribcage curl up tightly.

“One last question,” Jeremy says.

“Okay,” says Ryan, and waits for Jeremy to speak again, and then widens his eyes hilariously when he's faced with open arms instead. “Um.”

“Bring it in, brother,” Jeremy grins. He can _feel_ the twinkle in his eyes grow when Ryan's limbs jerk awkwardly towards him, so he stretches up, making it easier for both of them, and wraps his arms around his (much taller, very warm) friend.

Ryan hugs back as though he's minimising the chances of air getting between them.

“I _will_ miss ya, pal.”

“Me too,” Ryan mumbles.

He claps Ryan on the back for good measure, and they pull back. “Stay safe over break, Ry,” he says, still grinning. “Don't do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“We're both as bad as each other, that's not a lot of things off the table there,” he points out, and Jeremy cackles.

“Go home, Haywood. Have a great Thanksgiving.”

After Ryan leaves, his suitcase goes unpacked for an obscene amount of time - he sits on his bed, clenching and relaxing his hands into the fabric of shirts.

 

* * *

 

Over dinner, his sister asks if there's _anyone special_ in his life, which is just an all-round terrible question. _Everyone_ in Lil J's life is special. And he tries to make sure everyone knows that, too, even if he's perpetually evil to them all. Them being evil right back is how he knows the message gets through.

“Ah, not really,” he says instead.

“No-one?” says Mama Dooley incredulously. “No lucky ladies at work?”

“Mom,” he says, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, “if I'd met someone at work, do you _really_ think I'd keep it from you?”

“Yes,” says his dad.

“You're entirely correct. I don't want you meddling, or stalking my co-workers, or anything like that,” he grins.

Clean-up after Thanksgiving dinner is a casual affair. These days, the Dooleys alternate between hosting nearby family, and taking a year for themselves. When the latter proceedings roll around, they fall into their jobs with the air of a group who know how to keep their domestic machine well-oiled. Jeremy takes out the plates for his sister to wash up, and dries them when she's done, whilst his parents straighten out the dining room.

She connects her Spotify to the Bluetooth speaker on top of the fridge. “Pixies okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jeremy shrugs. “I'm just gonna get the rest of the stuff, hang on.”

He makes it into the hallway – so much darker and colder than in Austin, with stark white walls tossing incandescent light about carelessly – and hears the opening chords to 'Where Is My Mind'.

He's _thrown_ into a new daydream, going sixty miles an hour down I-35 in the dark, with this damn song playing in the car. His car? Ryan's car? It isn't either, but it feels like both.

He's driving, tapping his hands on the wheel. Ryan must have control over the radio, because when the chorus hits, he starts to bob his head, which Jeremy clocks. And copies. Ryan's mouthing the words: _way out in the water, see it swimmin'..._

They share a look, and Jeremy can feel his brain-self try not to smile, before:

“ ** _OOOO_** _oooooOOOOOOO--_ ” they screech, headbanging violently, completely drowning out the singer's line about the Caribbean.

In his best squeaky tone, his voice breaking, he yells: “ _animals were hidin' behind the rooooocks--_ ”

Ryan's cackling in a ridiculously high register, but Jeremy doesn't stop dancing for one moment; the beat is rolling through his shoulders, he's shouting nonsense that's barely in key at all, and the lights by the side of the road are washing over them both, he can _see_ amber drizzling through Ryan's hair in microseconds at a time--

“Jere?”

The hallway plaster is chilly to the touch.

“Yeah?” he replies, his voice straining. The abrupt stop from driving at night, to standing still in the dark, makes him feel like he might throw up.

“Where've you gone? The counter's starting to fill up with stuff.”

“Sorry, ah, I just—have you got any Tylenol?” he gasps.

His sister's head pops around the door. Her hands are cast in bright yellow rubber gloves, and soap suds. “You okay?”

He winces. “Migraine.”

“ _Moooooooom_! Jeremy's trying to get out of chores!” she laughs, which does actually make him smile a little bit, and he tries not to think about Ryan's hair whilst his mother fusses over him.

This is getting out of hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Gavin chokes him as soon as he returns to the office. It's a hundred and fifty pounds of weight on his back, and a spindly reminder that he's home again. Jeremy vaults him into the beanbag and tells him that he thinks Michael's around, if he's that desperate for a dick to suck.

“Speaking of,” says Gavin, “Ryan's birthday is on the sixth,” but he descends into muffled rustling and doesn't get to finish, because Jeremy shoves his smug face further into the beans.

“Oh, nice. Mine's in June, can you pencil me in?”

The Brit squawks with giggles. Lil J doesn't relent, relishing in the fact that he's looming over someone for once:

“Or d'ya, y'know, just come and take what you want? _Jeans down, straight to business, you're gonna fucking enjoy it_ style--”

“ _Jeremy_ ,” Gavin says helplessly, his eyes crinkled with mirth, “I'm a _gentle_ lover, Jeremy...”

“You're a moron,” he corrects, and gives the beanbag one last punt for good measure.

Ryan doesn't get back for another three days, so when Michael and Gavin are off filming Play Pals that afternoon, Jeremy does some surfing online for gift ideas. Ryan's not so much of a materialistic guy, and it proves difficult to think up anything that might fit into what he already owns, or fits his interests at all.

“Hey,” he says to Geoff, who's the only one in the office right now. “What kind of thing is Ryan really into?”

“Math,” he replies immediately. “German dungeon porn. Dessert? Penis.”

“Thanks, Geoff.”

“I'm here all week.”

Jeremy pauses for a second; dessert could be an idea.

It feels like years and years, but Ryan flies back into Austin on the first of December. He doesn’t look particularly well-rested, but it evidently wasn’t an exhausting trip, either. Jeremy briefly forgets how to breathe when he spots him in the parking lot.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey,” says Jeremy. “Good break?”

“Eh,” Ryan shrugs, “it was nice to see my family, but it was largely uneventful. You?”

“Pretty decent,” he grins, “mostly it was just nice to be around people I like for once.”

Ryan taps Jeremy's sneakers with the toe of his shoe, and Jeremy feels like the luckiest person in the world. “So _rude_ ,” he smirks.

“You love it. Hey, c'mon, I wanna pick out some stuff to feature on AHWU today.”

So they walk into the office together, and Jeremy only has to wait for less than a week before he gives Ryan his birthday present, and to be honest, he's never been so excited to pass days like this before. It gets to Friday before he becomes too impatient to wait for Ryan's actual birthday on the Sunday.

“Hey, Ry,” he says towards the close of the afternoon, when most of the company seems to have already left to wind down with some drinks.

“What's up, Jeremy?”

He slides into Geoff's empty chair, admiring Ryan's editing work for a split second before remembering the gift in his hands. “Uh, happy birthday! For Sunday. I won't see you til Monday, so I thought I'd give it to you now.”

Ryan clicks 'save' automatically and does a full spin in his office chair, coming to a stop by facing the other man. He grins childishly: “Jeremy! You got me a present? Can I open it now?”

“Sure can, pal. I'm not the boss of you.”

If Jeremy didn't know better, he'd swear that Ryan purposely brushed against his hand whilst exchanging the gift. It's like he knows he can get a fix from Lil J, that there's a safety and silence in how they deal with the vision problem and the skin contact limitations of his daily life. It's evolving into a daily struggle; Jeremy just wants to grab Ryan's hand or arm, or possibly the taller man's hips, and _oh god,_ this was definitely a thought process he could put off until the weekend.

Ryan tears off the wrapping like a toddler.

It's a generously-sized rectangular box. “They're called Miracle Berries,” Jeremy explains, amused when Ryan rests it in both hands like a PSP. “You dissolve the pills on your tongue and then they make terrible things taste really good. I've seen some videos of people, like, biting into onions because they think they're apples, so they must work...”

“Jeremy,” Ryan grins. “This is _so cool_. Thanks so much, dude!”

“No problem. Although I probably shouldn't be encouraging your sweet tooth with science witchcraft.”

They smile stupidly at each other.

“Seriously, though,” Ryan says quietly, interrupting it, “thanks, Lil J. That's really nice of you.”

“No problem,” he repeats, and tries not to let his breathing hitch too bad when he realises that Ryan called him by a nickname. “You wanna come over for Call of Duty next week?”

 

* * *

 

 

Achievement Hunter christen the bingo cage that Geoff's had hanging around forever by writing their names on ping pong balls, and cramming them in there for Secret Santa. This premise goes about as well as expected. Gavin throws his name across the desks in a perfect arc, landing directly in Jeremy's eye, to which he gets his revenge by pointing out that with the new dent embossed down the side, it really _was_ Gavin's ball. Michael laughs so hard that it sounds like he's developed a particularly nasty cough.

Jeremy picks Lindsay. There's a ten dollar limit, so he's pretty sure most of the gifts are going to be joke ones, but he thinks he might work on his drawing a little. Maybe he could do a kickass print for her or something.

“You're not very good at the 'secret' part of this, are you?”

“I'm just running ideas by, it's not like I'm saying 'hey, Ry, here's all the shit I'm gonna get ya'… Was that a headshot?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Very nice.”

Jeremy leans further back on his couch, sprawling his legs over Ryan's lap even more lazily. Ryan's response to this is to rest his forearms on Jeremy's shins, concentrating very intently on their game of Zombies; the weight is comforting, and with every press of every button, he can feel muscles jumping around the radius and ulna.

“I have a question.”

“I still don't know how you should draw Lindsay.”

“No,” Jeremy says, swiping his knife at a crawler, “I mean, like, a _question_ question.”

Ryan gives a distracted nod; his tongue is slightly protruding from between his lips with concentration.

“You know when you told me about 'one touch, one vision'? When we went to P. Terry's to see that server slip and die?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you tell me?” he says carefully, “on that day, I mean. What made you decide to tell me? We got distracted with proof when I asked, so you never said what I had to do with it.”

Ryan pauses the game.

“I,” he begins, and stares at the floor.

“Hey,” says Jeremy, propping himself up on his elbows. “You don't gotta answer if you don't want to. It's just a question.”

“No,” Ryan says. “I _do_ wanna. But... I can't.”

Doubt attacks Jeremy's nerves like a swarm, pricking him with thoughts like _he still doesn't wanna get too close, and it's because of_ _you_ , and _you’re never gonna get past this with him – no matter how hard you try._

He brushes them away.

“It’s okay,” he says, because it _is_ , and if Ryan’s not ready – _never_ ready – to tell him what he saw, then it’s none of Jeremy’s business in the meantime.

Ryan swallows, hard. “I’m sorry,” he starts to say. It seems to get caught in his throat, so instead, he rests a hand on Jeremy’s shins and says, quietly, “I really _do_ appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

“Does it help?”

He doesn’t look like he’s considered the question very hard before, but he finally, very slowly, says: “…yes.”

Jeremy lets himself flop back down on the couch, his body flooding with relief, because it doesn’t sound like Ryan’s being polite. It sounds like he’s telling the truth. “I wish there was some way I could help when we’re at work and stuff. I can’t just go around lounging on you, _everyone_ will think it’s okay to do it.”

“That would be so nice.”

“Lounging? Or being at work?”

Ryan grins, and unpauses the game: “being at work.”

“Okay, good, because I’m not sharing you,” Jeremy says seriously, and Ryan laughs so suddenly that his hand jerks and makes his character fall into a horde of zombies. “You get so stressed some days, though, it would be so neat if it was just like, ‘hug time now, c’mon Ry’…”

“Shut up,” Ryan mumbles, but he’s smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Jeremy a week, but he spends his evenings practicing his digital art over and over and over until he gets Lindsay’s gift up to a perfect standard.

He’s really happy with it. He hopes Lindsay will be as well.

Gavin lasts for two entire days before he accidentally lets slip to the whole office he picked Mica’s name out. Jeremy’s kinda surprised that Gav hasn’t teased him more about the theory he and Ryan are a thing together, but he figures it might be a _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ scenario, where he can only say dumb things if it has comedic value. It gives him a warm feeling in his chest to think about how he probably hasn’t told everyone yet because Jeremy _himself_ hasn’t figured out what’s going on, which he really appreciates even if it’s unconscious on his friend’s part. He just needs a little more time to understand where he and Ryan are right now, and--

_“I always knew you had it in you, Lil J,” says Gavin._

_“Oh my god, I’m so glad it was_ _you_ _who noticed first and not Geoff. We’re gonna tell everyone when we send out invites…”_

_“You know, if you want to be inconspicuous about it, I reckon Ryan should probably put off wearing the engagement ring for a while.”_

_Jeremy laughs: “yeah, probably. We’re just excited.”_

_“Me too! I’m so excited! Aw, a Lad marriage. To a Gent. You’re like Romeo and Juliet, Jeremy.”_

_“Shut up, oh my gosh. It’s a good job you’re not a terrible friend, Ry might not let me hang out with you if he knows you’re butchering Shakespeare--”_

\--and what these fucking brain things mean for his future. They’re getting super awkward to deal with.

“You feeling okay, Jeremy?” says Jack. “We’re gonna start the gift exchange in a bit…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves, forcing a smile. He kind of wants to get the headaches checked out, but he’s got no idea what he’d begin to describe to a doctor. _Hey, I keep getting visions of a life together with my attractive co-worker. Can you prescribe anything for that?_

It’s a cute, casual exchange this year – it’s usually done over company dinner, but there are quite a few early absences booked this time around, so they all congregate in the Achievement Hunter office to swap. Whilst Ryan is cooing over food from Mica, and Geoff is taking the rare occasion to actually wish Matt a _Merry Christmas_ and pull him into a grateful hug, Jeremy sidles over to his Secret Santa recipient.

“Happy Christmas, Linds,” he says, handing over the parcel, and she lights up like a firework.

“Oh my gosh, Jeremy!” she grins, “thanks so much!”

“You haven’t opened it yet,” he laughs, but he spoke too soon, because she tears off the paper excitedly.

It’s a digital picture of her, in Pokemon trainer fashion – emblazoned cap and weird pants, the whole works – smirking as she holds out a Pokeball in a powerful pose. Above her floats her preferred companion, an elegant Mew. And to top it off, he’d used his Secret Santa budget to display it in a simple frame.

“Jeremy, what the _fuck_? This is so fucking cool! How long did this take you?!”

He exhales. Man, that’d been rough on his nerves. “Uh… I mean, I put work into it.”

“Very diplomatic of you,” says Ryan, appearing from nowhere, and Jeremy jumps a fucking mile.

“God, we need to get you a bell.”

His expression drops comically. “Is that what you wanted? Because, like, if it is, I got you the wrong gift entirely.”

Lindsay smirks (“thanks for the picture, Lil J, this is going in the office at home!”) and tactically leaves, except Jeremy kind of wishes she hadn’t, because now he’s isolated in the corner with him and his nerves are jittering tenfold.

“You’re my Secret Santa, then?” He tries to be cool about it, but his voice doesn’t want to cooperate.

The attitude works for all of two seconds, before Ryan smiles shyly and goes, “yeah. Guess I am.” Jeremy swears his adrenaline levels leap when Ryan almost hands the gift straight over to him; there’s a little jerking motion when the other man realises that they’re supposed to be playing it cool at work, so no-one else thinks it’s okay to make skin contact, and he puts the gift box down on Jack’s desk instead.

Jeremy picks it up. It’s heavier than he thought it would be.

Ryan might actually be as excited for the reveal as he is. “Go on,” he urges, “I promise it won’t bite.”

Jeremy unwraps presents in the opposite way to how Lindsay does – instead of ribbons of paper flying in every direction, he runs his nails down the scotch tape and unfolds it, like some sort of sadistic, delicate origami destruction.

It’s an oblong, wooden box, a little larger than a flash drive, which is made of MDF and sealed. There’s some sort of tab on top. It’s also on a keyring. Jeremy looks quizzically at his friend, but the confusion only deepens when he sees Ryan holding a matching contraption.

“Here. Lemme use mine first.”

At the press of the tab, Jeremy’s gift gives a small rumble in his hands.

“Yours does the same, but for mine,” Ryan explains. “You said you wanted stuff at work, and with – what was it? _Hug time_? – out of the question, this was what I came up with.” He stops, rubbing his elbow awkwardly: “I also kind of wanted to do it when you get headaches. I don’t like… seeing you in pain...”

Jeremy pushes on the button in awe.

“Ryan,” he says. “You’re a genius.”

“Ah, it’s not that complicated--”

“How the hell did you even pull this off? What’s the range like?”

“It should cover the whole building,” he says firmly. “And did you ever watch that video we did ages ago, where I put the Xbox vibration motors in Gavin’s desk? It’s a… _better_ version of that gadget. I don’t know.”

He can’t _kiss_ him, can’t touch him at all, especially not here in the Achievement Hunter office where everyone’s talking amongst themselves, and it’s _not fair_. He might not know where he and Ryan are going, but Jeremy knows where they are now. And what they can do. And what he can do is stare him right in those damn blue eyes, and hold down the tab on the touchpad for several seconds.

Ryan bursts out laughing once he understands what it means, and Jeremy feels his own serious expression beginning to soften, but he doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. With anyone else, it would be reaching uncomfortable levels of staring time. With Ryan, though, he sees the taller man forget he was even laughing to begin with, and gaze right back at him, dopey smile and all.

“Are you gays coming? I mean, guys! You guys.”

“You’re so _mean_ , Michael--”

“Hey, if they wanna stay here and fall in love, I’m not gonna stop them. It’s beautiful. But I _do_ wanna go out for drinks, so we can leave them if we have to.”

“Just coming,” says Jeremy. He finally looks away to see that most of his colleagues, who are gathering at the exit to the office, are smiling at the two of them. When they see that they’ve broken the duo’s reverie, most of them make a point to restart their conversation and bustle for the door. (Mica waves, her little smile twinkling across the room as her fingers wiggle.)

“You’re gonna run the battery down,” Ryan murmurs. He didn’t avert his eyes at all.

“There are more batteries.”

 

* * *

 

Their holidays fail to align once more, and it’s over two weeks later when Jeremy meets up with Ryan again. The post-Christmas high begins to wear off. He dyes his hair, because he can, and he loves it, and it keeps the magic alive for a little longer when his scalp is neon green and brown like a festive rave tree.

He even pushes the button on the touchpad a couple of times, when he’s playing video games late at night in his apartment.

There’s never a reply. He doesn’t expect one, but it’s still disappointing.

He’s been into work, filming a few things and doing a bit of editing, but he has the next couple of days off. He plans to spend them doing absolutely shit all.

Of _course_ it doesn’t happen like he imagined.

A couple of days before New Year’s, Ryan calls him, which would be strange anyway, because they’ve only ever texted before, but it’s _doubly_ strange this time. A call at eight PM, for a start. He picks up the phone, and says, “hey, buddy, what’s up,” but there’s not really a greeting on the other end in response. It’s more of a… visceral noise.

“Ryan?” he asks. He double checks the caller ID, just in case. Yup. Definitely Ryan.

“Hey,” says Ryan, except it’s less ‘ _says’,_ and more the midpoint between a hoarse whisper and a croak.

“Jesus,” says Jeremy, sitting up at his desk, “you sound shitty--”

“Can you come over?” Ryan rasps.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I can. Are you alright? Do you want me to call someone?”

He’s out in the hallway now, pulling on his shoes, grabbing his car keys, trying to pull on a jacket with only one arm free – if Ryan wasn’t dying, Jeremy soon would be, whether it was of fright or a speeding accident.

“I already did,” says Ryan.

Jeremy’s heart melts.

“I’ll be right there, Ry. Give me ten minutes.”

It takes him eight to drive across town, and he doesn’t break any laws or anything.

When he pulls up, he immediately notices three things. Ryan’s car still has its lights on, which means that there’s a door not shut properly somewhere. It gets worse when he sees that every lamp is on through the first floor of the house, and the clincher is seeing the screen door shut, but the front door wide open behind that. He’s only visited a handful of times, but it’s clear that this is not normal at all.

He busts in, calling out Ryan’s name, and ready to kick some ass if he has too.

It’s no burglary, though. Just a very pale, heavily shaking man with his head in his hands at the dining table.

“Jesus Christ, Ryan, you scared me so bad,” Jeremy says, exhaling, “what the fuck is goin’ on?”

He has to fight back a sharp intake of breath when Ryan raises his head. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot; there are dark circles smeared into the skin underneath, so deep and dark that they could be oily face paint. (They’re not.) He’s as pallid as he was when he bumped into Mica, and Jeremy’s sudden flashback gives him some serious insight into what’s happened.

“Is this a vision thing?” he asks.

Ryan nods pathetically.

“Goddamnit, you _can’t_ keep doing this to yourself! You’re gonna give yourself a brain haemorrhage or something! When was the last time you went to the grocery store?” he demands.

Ryan doesn’t answer. He wraps his arms around his middle, and presses his face to the cool wooden surface of the table, and Jeremy has to stop himself from yelling. The guy looks like he might really start crying, and it would be _awesome_ to avoid that.

He goes to sit next to him, and thinks better of Ryan’s sensitivity after a vision. Then he goes to pull up a chair _opposite_ him at the table, but that seems way too distant and cold. In the end, he takes note of how the face against the cold table is leaving condensation marks, and forces himself to be gentler.

“Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs,” is the whispered response.

“Want help, or shall I meet you up there?”

“…I’m good.”

Ryan breathes audibly, psyching himself up to stand and lie about how he’s feeling a little bit more. He doesn’t meet the concerned gaze shot his way when he passes, so Jeremy watches him drag himself up the staircase and sets his plan into motion.

First, he locates Ryan’s keys (discarded in the hallway), and locks up his car properly. On his way back in, he firmly closes both the screen door and the front door. As he traces Ryan’s path to the dining room, he turns off all the lights, checks to see if the back door is locked, and collects supplies; a bottle of water, some painkillers from the first aid kit under the sink, and the charger for Ryan’s phone.

He trudges upstairs, and sees the light on in what he assumes must be the bedroom. When he pokes his head in, he sees Ryan lying on his back, over the covers, fully dressed, holding a pillow over his face.

“Hey,” he murmurs. The main light goes off; the bedside lamp is switched on. Much easier on the eyes. “Am I good to sit down?”

Ryan adjusts the pillow, enough to peer under it, and Jeremy approaches. It’d be rude to initiate a touching thing before Ryan says it’s okay, so he holds out the water bottle as an offering, instead.

Ryan curls damp fingers around Jeremy’s wrist and pulls him into a sitting position. _Okay, then_.

It’s an odd thing, to be watched intently by someone when you’re taking care of them. He can feel Ryan’s eyes following his every move as he plugs the charger into the outlet, and the phone into the charger. Putting the painkillers on the nightstand with the water. He notices, in the glow cast by the lamplight, that tiny red spots have appeared on Ryan’s face, like ink blots.

“Am I gonna have to clean up throw-up?” he asks dubiously.

“No. I’m a neat puker.”

Despite the vomit talk, Jeremy reaches towards Ryan’s face questioningly. When greeted with a slight nod, he presses both of his chilly hands to burning skin.

“Damn, dude, you even _feel_ ill.”

Again, there’s no reply. Just a relaxation into the cold digits on either side of his jaw. Surprisingly, Ryan’s stubble isn’t as scratchy as it appears.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“…It's incredibly emotionally taxing,” Ryan says, his eyes remaining closed. “I don't want to think of people differently afterwards, and I kind of do for a while.”

“Hmm?”

“The grocery store. I hadn’t bumped into anyone since before Thanksgiving break.”

“ _God_.”

“I thought… I thought you were making me better,” he murmurs, and sounds so pitiful that Jeremy’s eyes start to prickle. He flips his hands so the cold knuckles soothe his neck.

“Oh, Ry, you can’t keep doing this. _Hair of the dog, but with handshakes_? We’ve been over it. I know you hate the whole thing, but--”

“I’m,” says Ryan, tilting his chin up to feel all the benefits of Jeremy’s cool touch, “I’m _scared_ of it, Jere, it really frightens me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Yeah, but...”

How the hell does he approach this? It’s a perfectly rational reaction to, y’know, uncontrollably warping time to a mere brush of skin, and seeing your loved ones at the end of their lives, or _your_ life.

He starts again. “Your fear of first contact is making you super sick. I can't pretend to relate to how you're affected inside, but it's just _awful_ seeing you put it off and get like this, dude, this is the worst I’ve seen it. I’ll come with you if it’s that bad at the store. And that’s a promise.”

Whilst he says all of this, he retracts his hands from Ryan’s feverish face, and gets to work on the man’s shoes, instead.

“Can you come with me tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, pal,” he says, picking at the laces of his trainers.

“Thanks. I didn’t get to buy anything this afternoon. The greeter stopped me and I… Kind of ran away.”

“You disaster,” Jeremy says fondly. “Hey, I’ll pick you up in the morning, then? What sort of time?”

Ryan brushes his forearm with a clammy hand.

“…Please stay.”

“What? Here? Now?”

The questions are ripped from his mouth before he can process that they were generated at all. He’s frozen, the other shoe in his hands, and Ryan’s gazing at him with the most wounded, wearied expression he’s ever seen, and he figures, his life is weird enough. What’s a little more of a climb up the scale from ‘smell-the-post’?

“Of course,” he says. He hopes he covered up his initial shock, but it’s unlikely. Especially when Ryan gestures to the other side of the bed half-heartedly, because he’s now probably the picture of poorly-concealed surprise. “If I’m gonna stay, though, you gotta get changed. I’m not sleeping next to you if you’re wearing jeans.”

There’s a brief fight, with lazy ‘ _noooo_ ’s and firm ‘ _yes_ ’s being exchanged, but Ryan gives up very easily and starts to peel his damp shirt off. Jeremy darts into the bathroom to strip into his tank shirt and boxers, before he sees too much and starts to blush. When he returns to the room, the other man’s changed into a clean tee and loose jogging shorts, which isn’t too bad of a job for someone who‘s so out of it they forgot to close the driver’s side door earlier.

Austin is warmer than Christmas in Boston, but Ryan’s skin running so hotly has made the room positively _tropical_. Jeremy cracks the window open, flicks off the light, and crawls under the covers.

“Did you take any painkillers?” he asks. There’s an _mm-hmm_ in response. It’s quite nice, this – to have a relationship built not entirely on words, but on these quiet moments. An _mm-hmm_ relationship.

It seemed to be working okay so far.

Somewhere, in the humid darkness, Ryan fumbles around over his comforter to find Jeremy’s hand in the open. In much the same way that an avid reader grounds themselves in pages from emotional novels, he laces their fingers together desperately.

A car passes outside, and they hold on.

“I like your hair,” Ryan whispers.

Jeremy snorts, and squeezes Ryan’s hand.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to the sound of a phone ringing. Without even stopping to think, he detangles himself from Ryan, leans over, and picks it up.

“Morning, Jeremy Dooley’s phone,” he says sleepily.

And damn near has a _heart attack_ when Jack says: “…Jeremy?”

Shit. Oh, _shit_. He pulls away to clock the caller ID, and yup, that’s Jack, and he really should have checked before, because this is not his phone and this is not a call meant for him.

“Oh, Jack, hi!” he says, scrambling, trying not to wake Ryan up, “sorry, that was force of habit! Ryan’s... not available? No, that sounds bad. Oh, _god_ , this is the opposite of what you think.”

Jack’s fucking splitting his sides on the other end of the line.

“Arghdhdgdghd,” says Jeremy, running a hand down his beard.

“It’s okay,” wheezes Jack, “this is actually way easier for me. Are both of you coming to the New Year’s party at mine tonight? You just saved me an extra call for the RSVP.”

Jeremy glances back at Ryan. He’s positively dead to the world.

“I’m totally coming,” he replies. “I’ll… get Ryan to text you?”

“Sure thing. And, uh, don’t worry about this. I won’t mention it to the others.”

“Oh, thank god,” he breathes, and Jack laughs again.

“Take it easy, Lil J. See you later.”

The line goes dead, and he wants to flop back onto the bed despairingly, but he knows it would disturb the man next to him. It’s not even nine AM yet, and already another one of his co-workers knows more about the state of his love life than even Jeremy’s managed to figure out yet.

He turns over, and goes back to how he woke up – with one arm slung over Ryan’s waist, and their legs tangled together.

Ryan shifts, and stirs.

“Sorry,” Jeremy mumbles. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“S’okay,” is the definitely not-totally-conscious reply, and Ryan pulls Jeremy’s arm tighter around himself, in a way he would never do in the world of the waking.

It can wait for another hour or so. Ryan is still warm, but comfortingly so; he seems to have lost the feverish edge the vision had brought on. Jeremy drifts in and out of sleep for a little while, enjoying the closeness, and the reminder of it every time one of them fidgets. He finally wipes the tiredness from his eyes and relinquishes their contact when Ryan rolls over, squinting.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Less bullshit,” Ryan says categorically. “You wanna use the shower first, or shall I?”

“That’d be real nice. Thanks, pal.”

The blond gestures absently in the general direction of the bathroom, and rubs his stubble. “Towels are in the closet in there. Spray deodorant, too. Shower’s pretty simple to use, but lemme know if you need help working it out.”

“Thanks,” says Jeremy. He pauses in the doorway. “Oh, yeah. Jack called for you, he wanted to know if you’re going to his New Year’s party tonight. He said to text him, let him know.”

He gets a thumbs-up from Ryan’s supine form, made with the hand that held his only hours ago, and Jeremy wanders to the bathroom. When did this relationship gets so domestic? The shower is easy to figure out, but the question of he-and-Ryan is decidedly not. He’s fairly sure Jack and Gavin have strong suspicions about _something_ , now, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Lindsay had an inkling, too. Geoff most likely doesn’t care. Michael’s been making the same jokes he makes with everyone, so that’s not special, but if Lindsay suspects, she might have brought it up to her husband at some point.

God, this was a mess. In a matter of months, he’d gone from vehemently pissed and hurt with how Ryan had first reacted to him, to being a confidant with regards to psychic powers, to starting physical contact therapy, and then _actual cuddling_ – he always figured when he took the job at Rooster Teeth that he’d keep his sexuality, and his partners, separate, but now the lines were blurring. He doesn’t know where he stands anymore – with Ryan, with work, and hell, with all his co-workers. They’re surely protective of Ryan. He’s been there longer. They’ve known his sensitivities and haphephobia for ages, and suddenly, there’s a loudmouth shorthouse whisking him away and trying to change him.

Is this even a change for the better?

Jeremy chooses a black towel to dry his hair, just in case any green dye transfers, and pulls on his clothes. Upon descending downstairs into the kitchen, he’s hit by the smell of… toasted waffles?

“Your sweet tooth is out of control,” he grins.

Ryan startles, laughing, and says, “you shower real fast, Lil J. You want strawberries?”

“Hell _yes_ ,” he enthuses.

Jeremy eats standing, leaning against Ryan’s kitchen counters. Ryan, on the other hand, puts Cool Whip _and_ chocolate syrup _and_ strawberries on his, and perches on the counter. It’s pretty cute when he starts swinging his legs, to be honest.

“I’m out of cereal,” he says between bites. “And milk. And… basically everything else.”

“Still up for grocery shopping, then?” Jeremy smiles.

“Absolutely. Still up for being my grocery lackey?”

“I can’t believe you’re going to make me carry all your stuff,” he says, shaking his head in mock dismay.

Ryan laughs. He has whipped cream on his nose.

They drive to an unfamiliar store on the other side of the city in Ryan’s car, with the windows down despite the fifty degree chill that’s hit the end of December. Jeremy can’t remember the last time he went shopping with someone for normal things. Sure, they buy all sorts of weird shit for work, but never just… Cereal, and stuff. He was probably with his family the last time.

It’s nice. It’s nice to be able to annoy Ryan by putting ridiculous products in the cart which he doesn’t need. It’s nice to be able to help him pack everything up at the end. It’s nice to buy disposable cups and paper plates for Jack’s party tomorrow.

On the way back, he notices that Ryan isn’t doing that thing anymore, where he adjusts the stick and then hides his hand on his lap. He’s driving with two hands on the wheel instead.

“What’s so funny?” Ryan says, the corners of his lips twitching.

“Nothin’.”

“Alright. Weirdo.”

“Is this a new entry for the scale?”

“What,” smirks Ryan, “like, ‘secret-smile’ weirdo? I don’t know where that would fit. I feel like it’s below ‘clammy-change’.”

“I don’t think it ranks at all. It’s not as weird as ‘smell the post’ because it’s not _as_ secret.”

“That’s dumb,” Ryan says, and invites him to play Plants vs. Zombies all day, if he doesn’t have any plans.

Jeremy considers it for all of ten seconds.

“Lemme dash home and feed my cats,” he says, “and then I’ll stay and kill zombies with you.”

He drives back to his apartment whilst Ryan unpacks his groceries, and finds that Booker and Scooter haven’t moved. From their spot by the radiator in the hallway, they haven't cared in the least that he was gone – bathing in heat is a far more important task than worrying. Lil J’s never spooned cat food into the bowl so fast in his life.

Before he heads back over, he stops to think about what he’s doing, and decides he needs to freshen up. Brushing his teeth, throwing deodorant and a change of clothes into a gym bag…

He hesitates with the body spray.

He’s already got some on, after all.

That was the thing he was learning about Ryan, he thinks to himself, slinging the gym bag in the back seat – the guy’s a walking enigma. Doesn’t like the endings, so he never starts the beginnings. Presents himself as a brash, reckless murderer in almost every game they play, but is simultaneously well known to fans as being a very reserved Rooster Teeth recluse. And, on that note, gets all jumpy whenever someone touches him, and yet is one of the clingiest people Jeremy’s ever met.

Which is why he’s packed the bag. Chances are, Ryan’s gonna cling, and Jeremy will have to rush home tomorrow morning to feed his cats again.

He pulls up and releases his keys, only to have them vibrate unexpectedly in his hands. Jeremy definitely doesn’t fumble them and yell.

The fucking touchpad. He’d put it on his keys. Of _course_ he was in range now.

“You’re an asshole,” he calls through the screen door.

“It’s open,” Ryan shouts back.

And it is. Jeremy meanders through into the living room, sans gym bag, and sits next to Ryan on his couch. “Your asshole’s open?”

He straight-up _giggles_ , all high pitched and bubbly, and passes over a controller. “I’m ignoring that because I want to be the sunflower.”

Jeremy shifts closer.

“Do you think we can do this level with just two of us?”

“Don’t know. I think so.”

They’re halfway to the boss battle when they stop exchanging conversation about the reinforcement crates. “I have a question,” says Ryan.

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s a personal one.”

“Ryan, I _slept over_ last night.”

“Oh, right,” he laughs, and plants a new turret by the flag. “So, like… How come you’re not with anyone?”

Jeremy bites the inside of his lip. “I guess… Uh. I was with someone a couple years back. But they weren’t too enthusiastic when I wanted to move here, and…”

“You left them behind? In Massachusetts?”

“It was less _left them behind_ , and more _had a huge falling out over my career_ ,” he cringes. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t support the stuff I’ve always wanted to do.”

“That sucks, Lil J, I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s okay.” He takes out the zombie wearing the traffic cone who’s attacking them with a few more shots than necessary: “it was more than a year ago now. I don’t feel bad about letting them go.”

He tries to think of a rebuttal as they mow down undead pirates in barrel armour, and wonders if he’s going to fuck this all up.

“You know you said once that the visions can’t change?” he begins. “How do you know?”

“It’s exactly what you think,” Ryan replies, and there’s a satisfying clinking noise onscreen when he picks up a whole load of coins. “Saw something, didn’t like it, tried to change it… Didn’t work.”

“How so?”

“She didn’t trust a bi guy,” he says simply.

“That’s fuckin’ _shitty_.”

There’s movement in the corner of his eye; Ryan shrugs his shoulders, and sounds like he’s trying to inject some cheeriness into his tone. “It wasn’t so bad. My parents were fine with it. Most of my friends were fine with it. Just Isabelle who was… a hurdle. She was my girlfriend for a long time, too.”

“ _God_ , Haywood. We are just a _bundle_ of laughs today.”

“That’s what killing zombies is for. In whatever zombie-killing game we happen to be playing that day.”

Jeremy huffs with mirth, and then Ryan cheers, because he’s somehow collected fifty Gamerscore and missed the achievement description.

He pushes the thought that Ryan is trying to change a future he didn’t like with Jeremy away, into the deep recesses of his brain where most of those insecurities are cast aside. At least he knew that he wouldn’t be dealing out rejections to folk who were coming out, like, ever. Yeesh.

The boss battle wave they’ve reached demands unwavering attention, and he gladly lets it distract him. It’s smooth sailing from there, to be fair. With the exception of the free-for-all murdering which occurs after they beat the bosses, ending in Ryan sending Jeremy sprawling across the couch whilst the shorter man cackles mercilessly, he manages to keep his emotions under control.

‘Til that evening, anyway.

They head over to Jack and Caiti’s together at about seven, armed with disposable kitchenware and the knowledge that there would be fireworks and food. Jeremy quickly gets roped into a few drinks with the Lads. (It’s hard to say no to Gavin, and he’s not sure why – chances are, Gav had some kind of mind control power and he would find out about it in due course. Life was odd like that.)

It’s great to kick back and relax with all his friends in private for once. They usually head out to bars or events or public areas, and the excuse to congregate together from the comfort of their own homes, work a forgotten responsibility, is pleasant.

“Getting close to midnight,” says Meg gleefully, pulling Gavin closer. He’d already been crowing in celebration for several hours, with the excuse that by six PM in Austin, it was already New Year’s in Oxfordshire. Michael had been hitting him with increasing violence since it started, but now he’d disappeared to help Jack with the fireworks.

Not that it mattered much anymore. It _was_ close to twelve, close enough to excuse it.

“Hey, Jeremy,” Lindsay says, “Ryan’s outside if you’re looking for him.”

He throws his solo cup in the trash: “why would I be looking for him?”

Lindsay and Meg exchange glances.

“Does he have sparklers?” Jeremy asks.

“I mean… Probably. Ryan and fire risks are never far apart.”

“Cool,” he grins. “Guess I’ll go find those, then. Catch you in a bit, Happy New Year.”

There’s a chorus of returned pleasantries as he leaves, but he swears that when he heads for the backyard, Lindsay mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “ _holy shit, what a fuckin’ idiot_ ”.

The air is brisk and the night is clear; he slips his hands into his jacket pockets to stop them from going numb in the last minutes of the year. “Hey, Caiti,” he says, walking up to her. “Sweet party.”

“Aw, thanks, Jeremy!” she beams. “You excited for the fireworks?”

“Yeah, I heard there might be sparklers, too.”

“As long as no-one sets the hedge on fire this year, I’m allowing them, yeah.”

Jeremy snorts. “That’d be great if we could avoid that. Although I feel like all your guests aren’t as alcohol-soaked this time around. We’re less flammable.”

“I’m sure as hell not,” calls Michael. Despite this, he seems to have astounding control over the set-up of the light display. “Hurry up, assholes! Get out here! It’s almost twenty six _teeeeeeeen_ \--!”

“Not you, though, Gavin,” Jack smirks, looking over Jeremy’s shoulder. The Brit soon pops up behind him. “Stay there and don’t touch anything. You’re not allowed too close after last year’s… fiasco.”

Meg pats his shoulder and giggles when he lets out a tiny, sad ‘ _awwww’_.

Everyone’s started to form a crowd in the garden now, staring expectantly and excitedly at the pile of explosives Michael and Jack had set up. “Hey,” says Caiti, nudging him, “I think Ryan’s around somewhere. He was definitely out here a few minutes ago.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me where to find Ryan?” Jeremy asks genuinely. “Is he asking after me or something? It’s so weird.”

Caiti’s mouth drops open. She quickly conceals it with her hand and laughs. “Oh!” she squeaks, “ _oh_ , don’t worry then! Sorry Jeremy. Oh, no.”

He wants to ask what she means. It’s like there’s a big joke he’s not in on, and it’s really starting to get to him. Before he can ask, however, Caiti flaps a hand dismissively and jogs over to her husband, because everyone’s begun to look at their phones and watches, and are preparing to count.

Michael forces his way through Meg and Gavin, and presses a solo cup into Jeremy’s hand. “Here y’are, Lil J,” he says. “Happy New Year.”

Jeremy raises it in gratitude. Something to focus on and hold makes him feel significantly less awkward. “Thanks, pal. Here’s to a good one.”

_Five. Four. Three. Two. One…_

Happy New Year.

It erupts around him; the phrase, the couples pairing off for their own little moments, and the lighter Jack fumbles in the darkness. Jeremy takes a generous swig of his drink and tastes whiskey. He hopes it’ll be a year to remember.

In front of them, the fuse on the pile of fireworks fizzles, and the party guests hold their collective breath – the first one shoots up into the clear night, leaving a trail of illuminated smoke and a shower of emerald sparks.

In the flash of green, Jeremy looks over at the other group, on the opposite side of the firework pile. He sees Jack and Caiti, with their arms around each other’s waists; Andy, Kdin, and Matt, all talking amongst themselves; and Ryan, standing just as awkwardly as he was, plastic cup and all.

They lock eyes, surprised, and the green glow disappears.

In the abrupt pause in lighting, Jeremy rustles his keys in his jacket pocket, the thrill of secrecy running through him when he presses the touchpad out of sight.

Ryan lights up in yellow and orange this time, and when the crackling streams fall to the ground, Jeremy feels his keyring reply – an elongated buzzing in his cold grasp.

Gavin taps him on the shoulder.

“You know,” he murmurs, leaning in so only Jeremy can hear, “he might still be a bit like, ‘don’t touch me’, but I reckon he’d _really_ like to spend New Year’s with you.”

He doesn’t mean to hiss January air through his teeth like he does, but he can’t help it. Comprehension sets in. “Is this why everyone’s been being so fuckin’ odd tonight?”

“You did arrive together,” Gav points out. “They might have been pushing their luck for a New Year’s snog, but… I dunno. You two look like you really have a thing for each other.”

He looks over his shoulder towards Ryan (and swears he sees Meg darting into the darkness to rejoin the main crowd). When he turns back, he realises that there’s no trace of a smile on Gavin’s face whatsoever – he is the perfect study of seriousness, even with his flyaway hair and ridiculous jacket.

The last firework explodes out of existence, and everyone cheers.

“…Thanks, buddy,” he says slowly.

“You should go for it, Lil J,” says Gavin, and hits him lightly on the shoulder.

Well, according to Jeremy’s insights into the future, it looks like Gavin's going to be weirdly perceptive and persuasive for the rest of their lives. Yikes.

The whiskey is left in Mr. Free’s irresponsible care. He makes his way around the wide berth the crowd of guests have given the firework pit, dealing out ‘ _Happy New Year!_ ’s left and right, and approaches Ryan.

“Sparkler?”

“I was reliably informed that you had some,” Jeremy says, forcing himself not to jam his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, well,” says Ryan, smiling, “I wasn’t supposed to give them out until after the display. That way they weren’t wasted.”

“Wasted?”

“If you’re looking at the sky, you’re not looking at the sparkler,” he replies, like it’s obvious. He hands one over tentatively, and starts fighting with a safety lighter.

“Oh, right, of course. Good thinking.”

The sparkler flares into life, and Ryan lights up one of his own. Andy and Kdin seem to be handing them out to the other guests who are still outside, and sure enough, soon the whole back yard is filled with glittering beacons.

“Wanna stay over tonight?”

Ryan asks it quickly, and looks like he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth.

It’s not _stay over tonight_ – the instruction is absent, as is the pleading question proposed to him the night before in fever. Instead, it’s _do you want to_.

“Yeah,” he says.

He watches his breath, visible, swirl into the night sky, like the tension from Ryan’s shoulders. There’s something cathartic about it. They’re standing side by side, bundled up in warm jackets, holding sparklers, like children, or maybe adults who had no idea what they were doing.

“Do you need to go home for a change of clothes?”

“Ryan,” he says, drawing lazy circles with his sparkler. “I packed some when I went home earlier. They’re already in the back seat of my car.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

It could be the cold, or a residual reaction from Ryan’s accident with visions the day before, but his cheeks seem a little pink.

(Jeremy's complexion matches. He's had whiskey to keep out the cold, and he’s also lacking in Ryan’s end-of-relationship ability - there's no vision fevers in Jeremy's future. With those options unavailable, he’s not sure what _his_ excuse would be.)

They deliver their thanks and well-wishes to everyone at the end of the party; Jack gives Jeremy an enormous bear hug, and says: “thanks for coming, guys.”

Jeremy catches Caiti’s eye. “Thanks for inviting us,” he says. She beams when she notices the choice of pronoun.

 _Us_. It's got a damn good ring to it.

Ryan drives them back to his apartment. The streetlights passing overhead as they travel remind Jeremy of what he saw over Thanksgiving – maybe, one day, he’s the one driving Ryan home from their friends’ get-togethers.

“I’m so exhausted.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t expecting to feel a hundred percent today, surely.”

Ryan, hanging his keys up by the front door, shrugs. “I actually feel a lot better than I usually do. I’m sure it’s your fault.”

Jeremy is such a ‘secret-smile’ weirdo and he hates that Ryan made him this way.

They drag their feet up the stairs, drowsily taking turns in the bathroom and falling into bed without a second thought. When weariness tangles its gnarled little claws into your brain, it becomes harder and harder to consider the consequences of actions such as ‘sleeping in the same bed as your super close friend _for the second night in a row_ , which means you’re probably going to have to have a talk about this at some point’.

So Jeremy doesn’t consider it at all. His last thought, before sleep steals him away, is that Ryan is still warm next to him - even without a fever.


	3. Chapter 3

_“What’s your favourite colour, Ryebread?”_

_“Blue, same as Trevor,” says Ryan. Though it’s still cold, the sun’s doing its best to cast beams of light onto every inch of his face. “Though I’ve been warming up to green recently.”_

_Jeremy glances at him in shock, because that was_ _explicit_ _, it was so_ _obvious , and he has to squint because glare from the camera lens catches him square in his pupils-- _

“--so fucking hurry up if you’re coming along,” Michael’s saying.

Gavin stares into the distance. “I _do_ want lunch,” he says thoughtfully.

“Come on then! Jesus Christ.”

“What’s happening?” Jeremy asks, itching at his temples. “I want lunch too.”

“We’re going on a prop run,” Michael says. “I got a whole fuckin’ list of miscellaneous shit that Marcus asked for, ‘cos he’s too busy to get it today and it’s urgent, so Trevor and I figured we may as well get it while we’re on lunch. You wanna come?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

“Okay,” says Michael, “we’re going now though. And Ryan already called shotgun. Shut up, Gavin, _he_ gets front seat so that he’s not crammed in the back with you idiots--”

Jeremy gets his things together.

The group meet inside the front door so they don’t have to wait in the cold. It’s Jeremy, Trevor, Gavin, Michael, and Ryan – who turns up last, saying that _he’d been here!_ and making everyone shake their heads in disbelief.

“Every time,” Michael says exasperatedly. “What was it now? Some secret ‘The Know’ meeting about how they’re gonna colour code everyone’s hair to tell them apart?”

“Ey, you leave my girl alone--”

“Like she hasn’t tried to get you to dye yours, Gavin. C’mon, let’s go already.”

He pushes open the door and steps out into the car park. Ryan, as ever, holds the door, so that he can avoid everyone brushing past him.

“If you were going to, what colour would you go?”

“Maybe blond,” says Gavin. “Used to be proper blond when I was little.”

“I’d go bright red,” Michael decides. “People draw me as a redhead so often, it’d be pretty funny to give everyone a heart attack.”

“Would you ever dye all of your hair, Jeremy?” Trevor asks. Oh, he’s filming. The camera is pointed at his face, the glare from the lens making him squint unexpectedly – he and Michael must have a Shenanigans planned or something.

“Nah, I’m sticking with just the top,” he grins. “I might switch it up, I’m thinking maybe purple next. But it’s already my favourite colour, so…”

“Ah, my favourite’s blue, but if I were to dye my hair? I’d go white, dude. Rep that Slytherin House.” Trevor adjusts an imaginary tie. When Ryan rubs his eyes and goes _oh my god_ , it catches his attention: “what,” he says, amused, “you telling me Ryan Haywood wouldn’t go white?”

“I might go _grey_ ,” Ryan mumbles. A little smile grows when everyone cracks up.

Michael snorts, but Gavin grins - “what’s your _favourite_ colour, Ryebread?”

“Blue, same as Trevor,” says Ryan, and the sun’s illuminating his face, and Jeremy’s blood runs cold. His heart is torn; crippled with fear, yet overridden with fondness, when Ryan looks through his eyelashes at him and adds, in a slightly quieter voice, “though… I’ve been warming up to green recently.”

That was _explicit_. It was so _obvious_. Trevor points the camera at Michael to ask him something else, and the lens on his phone casts another painful glint into the corner of Jeremy’s eye.

A shooting pain sears up the bridge of his nose. When he rubs his face, his hand comes back bloody.

“--maybe an Extra Life goal someday, who knows? Woah, Lil J!” says Michael, interrupting himself, “did you just get an anime nosebleed? Would I be that sexy with dyed hair?”

“Definitely,” he says, wiping his nose and coming back red again. “Shit, I haven’t had a nosebleed in years!”

Ryan rummages in his pockets and comes up with a little packet of tissues, which he tosses in Jeremy’s direction. He catches them with his non-bloody hand, because it’s just polite.

“You’re such a dad, Ryan,” Gavin laughs.

There’s not a lot of blood, but it’s enough to keep him on edge for the rest of the day. A nosebleed and a brain thing that _came true_ unsettles him. It’s as though he’s only just understood that this really is the future he’s seeing, and if Ryan’s testimony was anything to go by… There’s nothing he can do.

He wonders if Ryan feels this out of control every time he meets someone. It’s incredibly likely. Another paradox for the enigma that was Ryan Haywood – having the power to know exactly the result of every relationship, but questioning your free will as a result of it.

The trip to the hardware store is going to feature in an episode of Shenanigans, Michael hisses to him later that afternoon, and it sounds like one of the funniest pranks they’ll ever pull. Apparently Gavin kept catching out Geoff with that high school trick where there was a line of scotch tape at face height, stretched out across the door frame.

“I’m pissed about the fact that my beard keeps getting caught in fuckin’ sticky tape,” he’d said to Michael and Trevor, “so I’m _begging_ you to injure him in a creative way.”

And Trevor had gone to Ryan, and the two of them had gone to Marcus, and they’d made a list of supplies, and then asked Michael to help them. As far as Gavin knew, they were running errands for the Production Department.

“We can’t call it Project Slime, it’s too obvious!” Ryan hisses whilst Gavin’s using the diner restrooms.

“Project Slime Pie. Project Pie.”

“Project Three-One-Four,” Trevor suggests.

“What?” says Michael.

“It’s _pi_ ,” Ryan explains, “I can get on board with that. We just have to say it real fast in case he’s in earshot.”

Jeremy stops thinking too hard about visions, and lets himself get distracted by the plan to catch out Gav. The guy he likes is kind of an evil genius.

 

* * *

 

“Food break?”

“Oh, you got it.”

“You’re lucky,” says Jeremy, “because I whip up a _mean_ omelette. Come in the kitchen, tell me what you want in yours.”

Ryan is over at his apartment again for another video game date. (Date? Still up in the air, he decides. They haven’t really discussed it yet.) Despite the lack of conversation about their sleeping arrangements, Jeremy is damn sure Ryan won’t be spending the night on the couch – not that anything was happening between the two, of course. There had been a couple instances of _sleeping_ occurring, together, but not _sleeping together_ occurring. It was for the best, considering Ryan still wasn’t cool with being touched by strangers.

In the month or so since the vision fever accident, he’d definitely come a long way, considering. Jeremy felt… proud of him. Like he’d been a part of some big step for Ryankind. Like Ryan had _allowed_ him to be a part of a huge milestone in his life.

“You want bell peppers?” he asks, pulling a block of cheese out of the refrigerator.

“Sure, thanks... Do you want any help?”

He could swear that Ryan’s voice echoes slightly, and frowns – his kitchen’s acoustics aren’t _that_ great, or he’d do recording for his vocals more often in here. Nevertheless, he pulls out the bell peppers, and is reaching for a chopping board when it happens again.

_“--said, are you feeling al--”_

“What?” he says.

“I said, are you feeling alright?”

Jeremy is actually starting to feel a little dizzy.

_“--let me get y--”_

“No, I’m fine,” he says, wincing, trying to ignore the building ache in his head. The counter is icy to the touch, but it’s keeping him from becoming abruptly horizontal. There’s a guttural hissing noise from the floor – Scooter’s going crazy, he _knows_ that noise, can see the raised hackles and charged fur even behind the whitening pain.

He presses a palm to his eye socket, attempting to ease the pressure.

“Jesus, Jeremy, you’re fucking _bleeding_! Let me get you a towel.”

He pries his sight open with all the strength he can muster. His hand’s come back soaked in red this time. It’s not like when they went on the supplies run a few weeks ago at all. Just when the iron stings upon reaching his mouth, running down his top lip, Ryan clamps a hand towel to his nose.

“God, it’s like _Jaws_ on your face.”

Whether it’s the close proximity, or the fact that now everything was in double vision – the events occurring happening two seconds apart from each other, like an after-image burned into his retinas – Jeremy leans into Ryan’s hand across his face and tries not to fall over. Which he wouldn’t usually do. He likes to make sure he’s asked, or at least established eye contact before he touches him.

Now is different. He doesn’t know if it’s okay, but… He needs it.

“Woah,” says Ryan, steadying him, “do you need me to call someone, Jeremy? This doesn’t look like it’s just a bad nosebleed--”

“I’ve been having brain things,” Jeremy says, grabbing the wrist attached to this gentle hand, the one which was compressing a stifling towel to the parts which took in air.

Ryan _immediately_ pales. “Fuck,” he says, turning an alarming shade of white, “is it… Is it serious?!”

“Oh, god, not like that-- I mean, like, your kind of brain things.” He’s breathing through his mouth now. It’s not getting worse, but it’s not getting better, per se. If he clamps his eyes shut again, it’s like he’s still there, watching the scene unfold. “Visions and stuff. The… the future.”

It hurts, but at the same time, it’s a comfort. If the visions have finally caught up with him, maybe it’s a twisted way of his mind showing him that time’s caught up with his relationship. He and Ryan have been going great, damn great, in fact, so it stands to reason that the future is on track, or that the future is now. Possibly.

Ryan removes his hand from the towel and steps back. “…Have you always been like this?” he asks.

He sounds… not happy.

“No,” croaks Jeremy. He fumbles at the towel. “It only started when we bashed heads. I don't know if it was transference, o-or a psychic link or something? Or, hey, maybe it's just a you-and-me thing. But I keep seeing things--”

The interruption is sharp. “The end? Did you see the ending?”

“No.”

Glancing up at the man in his kitchen, Jeremy notes that his tone’s changed to something distinctly un-Ryan-like. Where his towel-smothered breath is coming in short gasps, Ryan’s is unaffected by external objects. So why is he matching Jeremy, inhale-for-exhale?

“I’m okay with not knowing,” Jeremy tells him firmly, “we’ve already had our beginning. And I… I _really_ hope we have a future, too. I guess I just got a lot of the filler. The books between the bookends, or something.”

“Why are you telling me all of this now?”

Jeremy stares into the black of Ryan’s eyes, and sees fear. So he grits his teeth, because for _fuck’s sake,_  his brain was not co-operating with this pain control thing whatsoever.

“Because,” he forces out, “I’m ninety percent sure this is the last one I’m gonna have. Right now.”

Ryan takes in air audibly. It sounds like it hurts him.

“I’m seeing this, but I’m living it, too. And it’s syncing up. Suddenly all this shit isn’t the future anymore, it’s the present, and it’s the past, and we’re living it. And that’s what I want to do with you, Ryan,” he says, wiping his face roughly with the towel and trying to make himself presentable, “I wanna be living stuff. With you.”

The other man takes another step backwards, almost unconsciously.

“I… I _can’t_ , Jeremy…”

And Jeremy’s stomach turns to _lead_ , dropping through his body right there and then.

“Is this about our ending? Your vision for us?” he asks.

“No,” Ryan lies. “Kind of. Yes.”

“Well, which is it?!”

And Ryan freezes up, like every hair on his body is standing up on end. Jeremy doesn’t mean to shout, but goddamnit, he’s upset – he thought this was fine, he’d thought this was a good thing. He must look a fucking sight with blood streaming down his chin. His face contorted, into desperation and demand.

“It is and it isn’t,” Ryan cringes.

“You’re _i_ _nfuriating_!” Jeremy yells. “I’m sick of all these fuckin’ paradoxes and contradictions with you. Why won’t you just tell me what you want?!”

Ryan reaches out the palm which was against his face five minutes ago. There’s faint red smeared into his life line.

Jeremy dodges it. “Don’t touch me,” he spits. “You don’t get to spring shit on me and then act like a dick when it catches.”

“Je--”

“Is this what you saw? Is this the future you wanted?! ‘Cos let me tell you, Ryan, if we have any control over how our shit comes up, then _you made this_. Not me. This future’s all on you, _buddy_.”

He’s sneering now, overcome with raw, excruciating fury. Great, rattling gasps rack his throat, and never quite reach his lungs. Everything’s on overload: the background noise from their multiplayer game in the living room; the pulse in his ears; Jesus, the cat’s still fucking snarling in the corner of the kitchen. Ryan looks _petrified_.

Good.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he tells him.

And, without a word –

without any of the tension leaving his torso, with only a couple of rapid blinks and a clenching of his jaw –

Ryan does.

He thought he’d secured the future, finally. But Jeremy’s not allowed nice things, so inevitably, it turns out it was the fucking opposite. He hadn’t secured anything, he’d just sent them spiralling off their path irreparably, and the brain things had all finished up because there wasn’t any future left to show him.

Jeremy sits on the kitchen floor with his cats for a long time.

He cries.

He bleeds.

And then he puts away all the ingredients he needed to make two omelettes.

 

* * *

 

To everyone’s credit, either they don’t notice or they don’t mention the way Ryan and Jeremy are no longer making eye contact. (Or any contact at all.) Jeremy knows that his face is an uneven colour, splashed with dark circles and red blotches. He’s aware of this. But he’s not gonna give Ryan the satisfaction of seeing how it’s affected him in any other way.

He vents his anger in the only safe way he knows how to do – through passive-aggressiveness. He doesn’t want to make things inconvenient at work, obviously, because that would draw attention to the fact that Jeremy thought Ryan had actually warmed up to him. So he commits tiny problems no-one else would pick up on. Like, when filming Off Topic that week, Ryan sits on the very end of the table, and Jeremy sits three seats over – the furthest seat would mean he’d have to look directly at those offensively blue eyes, and he clearly can’t sit _next_ to him.

Jeremy starts coming in a little earlier, too – only thirty minutes, maybe an hour earlier than usual, but it means he can get the editing done that would otherwise bog him down at the end of the day. It’s less exposure time, a smaller window in which he’s obligated to exchange work conversation with him.

Except someone does notice.

Michael creeps up on him when he’s rearranging the Achievement Hunter refrigerator, on one of the mornings when he’s arrived early. It’s not even nine AM yet.

“What’re you up to, Lil J?”

“Oh, just stocking up on water,” he says, pushing all the cans of Diet Coke to the back and filling the front of the shelves with Evian. How’s _that_ for a pain in the ass, you dick.

“Y’know,” says Michael, “Lindsay’s the goddamn queen of passive-aggressive stuff.”

Jeremy closes the refrigerator door, with a little more restraint than if he’d have been alone. “So was it you who figured it out, or did she tip you off?”

“Eh, she tipped me off.”

“Right,” he says, and takes a seat at his desk.

Michael copies him, and pivots around in his chair as far as his motionless feet will allow him. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Talking about it is what got me into this mess.”

The dude seethes with recognition: “This is about Ryan,” he says, tapping his fingers in annoyance on the desk. “Damnit, I _knew_ this would happen, I knew Gavin shouldn't have been forcing it so much. It's one thing to joke about it, but it's another to fuckin’ meddle.”

“Ah, it’s not on him, it’s on me. I shoulda known better.”

Without really thinking about it, he grabs the plushie Voltorb from his desk and presses it to his abdomen in a one-handed hug, as though the soft fabric could comfort even this sickening motion in his stomach.

Michael makes a discontented _hrmmm_ noise, and might be about to add to his original line of questioning, but Jack chooses that moment to breeze through the door and halt the conversation.

And if Jeremy gets the feeling that the subject hasn’t been dropped, then maybe he’s having residual visions of the future – he decides to work late as well as come in early, until almost everyone’s left the building, and Gavin ambushes him.

“How was the podcast?” he asks, trying to ignore the fact that the wiry man jumped on his back straight after spotting him.

“Pretty good,” comes Gavin’s reply from above. “Blaine told us a story about how he almost died one time.”

“What the fuck? How?”

“You’ll have to watch it later,” he says cheekily, and Jeremy spins around so fast that Gavin shrieks and goes flying. Watching his friend stumble, grabbing onto the wall display to balance himself, he’s almost lulled into the lie that this is their usual piggyback ride routine.

Except Gav stops when he’s caught himself, and says: “… so how are things with Ryan?”

Michael _must_ have said something to him today. Jeremy feels his face drop; his body slump; his eyes fall out of focus. He turns back towards the video he was working on and itches his nose absently.

“Not good, then,” Gavin says awkwardly.

“ _Bad_ ,” he corrects him. “Real fuckin’ bad.”

“That’s absolute pap, Lil J,” he says sympathetically, “what happened?”

Gavin has something Michael doesn’t, though Jeremy would never admit that to anyone. Where Gav wants to draw attention to everything, an active, chaotic force in everyone’s lives, Michael is content to make the odd joke unless it genuinely contributes to the group’s dynamic. So to see Gavin being so passive for once… It makes Jeremy reconsider not talking about it. Plus, Gavin was the first person to clock that anything was happening at all, and it would only be good manners to clue him in.

“I wanted to tell him something important about me,” he starts slowly. “He’d told _me_ something, ages ago, and it’d been fine, but when I tried…”

“He wasn’t having it? That’s bang out of order.”

“Wasn’t having it at all,” Jeremy agrees, “he definitely didn’t react how I thought he would.”

“Michael said I pushed it too far,” Gavin says sheepishly.

Ah, there it is. The picture’s clear in his imagination – Play Pals finished, Michael checking no-one was outside the door, and letting rip. Yikes.

This is the most sincerely apologetic he’s ever seen him. “I’m really sorry if I ruined this for you, dude,” he winces, “I just thought… I don’t know. It’s all cocked up now, innit?”

Jeremy shrugs. He feels a little better, to his surprise, like their chat has released all the pissed off tension in his muscles. “Oh, Gavin,” he says, “you’re not the guy who was being a huge fucking hypocrite, it's not your fault at all. I promise.”

Gavin opens his arms, and wraps them around Jeremy’s front this time around. Gavin smells good, and Jeremy’s sad, and he’s glad he let himself do this, the talking thing. As it turns out, plushies and cats aren’t very good at listening to him.

“Thanks for your help whilst it lasted, pal.”

“You did all the legwork,” Gavin replies into his green hair. “Come on, dude, let’s finish up and go home. And maybe tomorrow will be better.”

He takes Gavin’s advice, electing to just come in as usual tomorrow and finish the video. The _maybe_ comes into play; tomorrow isn’t better, but it isn’t worse. He tries to convince himself that this means all the shit’s finally levelling off, that life could be on the up again after this. And work comes first. Jeremy throws himself into his editing, and his filming, and all the fans, and hopes to high heaven that he’s right about the future this time.

They’re all filming a Let’s Watch before half of them head off to RTX in Sydney. Jeremy is a better actor than he gives himself credit for, apparently, because Ryan is in charge of all of their characters’ moves, and he manages to keep up friendly conversation the entire time. Gavin even gives him a sneaky thumbs up. It’s a good job they didn’t facecam.

When they wrap the video, he hears a vibrating noise from his desk, and automatically checks his phone.

Nothing. Huh.

His desk? No, it’s his filing cabinet. He’d slung his keys in there, first thing when he’d arrived in the building.

He pulls open the top drawer, and he can instantly detect Ryan’s eyes on him. There’s a lot happening right now – not only is Ryan communicating through their touch-substitution method, but it probably says a lot about Jeremy that he didn’t take the touchpad off his keys.

He closes the drawer loudly. He has a new video idea he’s got to develop, and no time for bullshit.

At least Ryan’s going to Australia next week, and he won’t have to see him. If the guy wants to explain himself, he’s more than welcome, but Jeremy doesn’t speak subtle-apology, and he _especially_ doesn’t have the patience for non-verbal style ones.

At lunch, he sees Marcus in the kitchen.

“Hey, dude, how’s Three-One-Four goin’?” he asks thickly through a mouthful of salad.

Marcus beams. “I’ve been soldering today for a whole bunch of extra pieces for a set, so it’s actually getting somewhere. I keep sending pics to Ryan, you should get him to show you--”

“Ah,” says Jeremy, swallowing, “that’s okay! Um, I mean… It’s better to keep it on the down-low. I’m not so impatient I’ll blow the whole project outta the water.”

Marcus buys it. “Good thinkin’. I’ll keep you posted, but for now, it looks like it’ll be ready after everyone gets back from Sydney.”

“Awesome,” says Jeremy. “Good luck, dude, we love what you do.”

 

* * *

 

Stage 5 is fucking _empty_ after folk leave for Australia. Only Jack and Jeremy remain in the Achievement Hunter office, although Trevor hovers about periodically and comes in to do his bit for AHWU that week.

Not only that, but Jack leaves for San Francisco a couple _days_ after everyone else flies across the other damn side of the planet. Which is incredibly lonely, but it also means Jeremy can watch the broadcasts of the RTX panels when he wants to take a breather, without anyone judging him for scowling at Ryan the whole time.

Dumb Diet Coke shoes and dumb crotch shot and… The dumb way he drinks half a bottle of Peroni when it’s put in front of him.

What an asshole. God, he calls it _'Pepperoni'._

Even in The Patch, damnit, he’s there in high definition with those fuckin’ baby blues and immaculately groomed facial hair. He talks about the game in the Let’s Watch they recorded, and how his bottled water is due to expire, and it’s just so typically _Ryan_ that Jeremy finds himself getting annoyed.

The breather session morphs worryingly quickly into watching fan footage. Twenty minute videos about Achievement Hunter and Funhaus behind the scenes, or on the convention floor. Glimpses of Lindsay’s hair and snippets of accented, British audio. Clips with a few thousand views. Clips with a hundred views. And when Steffie pops her head in the room to retrieve some footage, meaning Jeremy has to hastily close the video he was on like it was a risky click, he takes a good, long look at his priorities. It’s not healthy, for crying out loud, to keep looking at shit featuring someone who’d hurt your feelings.

…So he promises to finish up with one last one.

It’s more fan footage.

_RTXAU 2016 – Team Crazy Mad have plans!!_

Jeremy squints at the shitty, shaky footage – it must be before one of the panels, or maybe afterwards, because his colleagues are all behind the broadcasting stage. The title doesn’t lie, either, because Jones and Haywood are exchanging dialogue separately to the main group.

Michael’s making gestures like he’s pissed. Jeremy’s definitely seen those arm movements before, but never quite as restrained… Michael’s not exactly the kind of guy who usually worries about causing a scene.

It looks private, whatever conversation they’re having. Gav’s chatting to everyone else, Geoff appears to be filling up a hip flask, and Michael’s tactfully making an angry point at Ryan which the camera isn’t picking up, not over the sounds of the attendees and the crowd behind the barrier.

Eventually, Ryan stops looking so exasperated, and nods. The footage cuts out after that.

It was only posted a few hours ago - he wonders what Michael was saying. Maybe he’s taken a leaf out of Gavin’s book and started to ‘meddle’.

Jeremy grabs the Voltorb again, and it remains on his lap until the end of the day.

 

* * *

 

The day after the convention hosts come back to work, Jeremy and Ryan pull up next to each other in the parking lot.

He debates sitting in his car on his phone for the longest fuckin’ time, but at that point, Ryan’s already spotted him, so he sighs, grabs his lunch, and steps out into the brisk morning.

“I’m sorry.”

Jeremy doesn’t look over. He continues to face his car, if only so he doesn’t have to face a dilemma he doesn’t understand.

But he does stop to listen.

“I really mean it. I’m sorry,” says Ryan’s disembodied voice, “I shouldn’t have reacted like that, and I wanted to tell you properly, to your face.”

“How bad did you get chewed out?” he asks.

“…Did you get a vision about that?”

“No,” says Jeremy, sounding annoyed, “Michael’s just not an idiot. And he knows I don’t like bullshit non-apologies.”

“He was… entirely correct.”

Jeremy turns around to face him, and Ryan looks… goddamned _ashamed_ of himself. He’s not even closed the door of his car yet. The hand gripping the edge of the roof is so clenched it looks like it might leave impressions in the metal, Mr. Incredible style.

“You were a real asshole back there,” Jeremy points out.

“I was,” agrees Ryan.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“You have every right to be.”

“And I’m not gonna apologise for what _I_ said,” Jeremy adds, “but I am sorry for _how_ I said it.”

“God, Jeremy,” says Ryan, shutting his car door and shoving his keys in his back pocket, “I am so, _so_ sorry for _everything_ I said. I was freaked out, and I know that’s not an excuse, but--”

And someone chooses that exact moment to pull into the parking lot.

Jeremy jabs a finger in Ryan’s direction. “We’re not done with this,” he says firmly. “I’ll text you later.”

Ryan nods rapidly and, running a hand through his hair, makes a beeline for the building.

Jeremy resists the urge to bang his head against the window of his car. Man, he has to figure out a way to do this smoothly. Ryan might be a complete bastard, but it would be interesting to see if he was a repentant bastard, too.

He sends it just before they film a group video that afternoon:

 **If you’re free tomorrow after work, come over** ****  
**_Are you sure?_ ** ****  
**Course I’m sure, asshole. We’re gonna kill zombies and we’re gonna talk** **  
** ****_I’ll be there._

Just for kicks, Jeremy opens the filing cabinet where his keys are and presses the buzzer on the touchpad. He has to stifle a laugh when Ryan jumps out of his skin.

Halfway through the Let’s Play, he hears a vibration from the top drawer. Though he doesn’t answer it – or look over at Ryan, because they’re on facecam – he does allow himself a teeny smile.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Ryan arrives at Jeremy’s apartment less than half an hour after they both leave work, and stands awkwardly in the doorway, like a shy vampire who hasn’t been given permission.

“Well, don’t just stand there, I’ll grab you a drink,” Jeremy says.

Except when they meander into the kitchen, Ryan hovers in the doorframe _there_ , too.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Ryan, you’re still welcome in the damn house. I said what I said too harshly.”

“I think you were fair,” Ryan mumbles.

Jeremy opens the refrigerator and retrieves two cans of Diet Coke. The presence of the beverage is met with a flash of surprise – especially when he doesn’t hand it straight over, electing instead to place it on the counter for Ryan to pick up himself.

“I know I’ve said it a lot, but I really am sorry for how I reacted.”

“I should have expected it,” Jeremy confesses, cracking open the tab. “In fact, I _did_ expect it, I was just hoping you weren’t gonna flip the way you did. I knew if I told ya, you’d think you’d fuckin’, I don’t know, _cursed_ me or something, and you’d probably stave off touching everyone on Earth for the rest of time.”

Ryan rubs his elbow awkwardly. It’s like he doesn’t dare to look at Jeremy, for fear of seeing something he doesn’t want to see, or something he isn’t ready for. “You… know me too well.”

“Damn right I do. You’re a stupid, stubborn bastard. Of course you’d feel like it was _all your fault_ …”

Ryan reaches a tentative hand out towards the Diet Coke, gently opens it, and wipes the condensation soaking his hands onto his jeans.

“I don’t know,” Jeremy repeats. “I guess I just thought we had a thing. Or something. I really hope we can still be friends, I shouldn’t have pushed all that on you at the time.”

Something snaps: “we are friends,” Ryan says, “a-and I _do_ want... We _did_ have…”

“Ry, I can’t do this,” Jeremy says. “It’s not fair. Just tell me where we are, or where we’re going, and I’ll be there if you want me to be.”

“I don’t know if we can _have_ what we want!”

The Coke can slams onto the counter. The soda droplets fizzle when they hit the surface.

It’s like his heart is being blown to smithereens all over again. “I don’t understand,” he says brokenly, “is… is your vision of me really that _bad--_?”

“No!” says Ryan too loudly.

“Then what’s the problem?!”

“The problem is the vision!” he yells, and he’s not in the doorway now, he’s pacing in the spaces between the sink and the living room, and Jeremy has never been so confused in his life. Ryan’s on a roll, though – he barely pauses for breath, his arms are animated, his whole body is filled with frustration: “when _you_ came along, it messed _everything_ up! Jack was fine, hell, I even know he still lives five minutes away in the future. Michael and Lindsay host barbeques and have kids, have grandkids-- and the last time I see Geoff, he's _surrounded_ by goddamn grandkids, and Gavin ends up comforting me by my fucking _deathbed_ , but when I touched _you_ , I didn't see anything!”

Jeremy feels like he might throw up.

The migraine. The white light.

It was _nothing_.

Oh, god, Ryan genuinely didn’t see a future between them. And not in a mean way, not in a rejection way, it was just… unknown.

“There was just that stupid fucking light, and that stupid fucking headache, and _nothing_ ,” he continues. “And I didn't tell you because I thought you'd think I was lying, or that you'd get as freaked out as I was, and I-- I was _scared_ , Jeremy, that's never happened to me before.”

The taller man’s stopped in the middle of his kitchen, now. His chest is heaving. Jeremy feels a phantom pain in the base of his spine.

“And I didn't-- I didn't want it to end,” Ryan confesses. “I wanted us to keep going, how we were.”

It all feels like it’s falling into place. The future; fate; two fuckin’ idiots with no idea what they’re doing.

“So you don’t wanna take it up a notch?”

Ryan stops.

“I don’t think it has to end,” Jeremy explains, feeling like he’s making less sense by the second. “Hell, I didn’t know the future and I still wanted to do this. And now you don’t know the future, and you still wanna do this. God, it’s almost like we’re two totally normal people who can’t predict anything. Let alone ourselves.”

“Jere--”

“Wait here,” he says, and storms into his bathroom, rummaging in drawer and cupboards, until--

Bingo.

“Know what this is?” he asks, marching back into the kitchen and slamming the box down by Ryan’s Coke.

“Uh,” says Ryan, looking unnerved, “hair dye…?”

Jeremy nods. “Yeah, hair dye. _Blue_ hair dye. Know when I bought it?”

“…While I was in Australia?”

“Nope. Way before that. Same day as we had the hair dye conversation, the supply run for Project Three-One-Four.”

The box is out in the open now. He’s staring at Ryan, filled with sharp intent, willing him to understand – _oh, god, please understand._

“Maybe your vision means we don’t have to end.” He’s filling the silence with something he might regret. “Maybe we _don’t_ end. Maybe we just go on forever and ever and ever, or maybe it means we make our own destiny or some shit, and, Jesus, Ryan, are you getting any of this?”

Ryan steps into Jeremy’s personal space, to run a couple of fingers across the cardboard of the hair dye box. “You were gonna go purple,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, buddy, I was.”

“But I said blue was my favourite.”

“You did.”

He looks at Jeremy from the apex of his eyes, so close that the shorter man can pick out individual flecks of blue in his irises, and says: “I’ve been really stupid.”

“You don’t say.”

“I would like to kiss you now.”

“That’d be nice,” Jeremy agrees.

It’s gentle. He’d never have expected anything else from Ryan. The taller man has to lean down an offensive amount to press their lips together, tilting his head to slowly close the gap at a careful angle, and Jeremy responds instantly. He might actually be melting. It’s like all the anger and miscommunication and tension has completely evaporated from his body.

There’s a small sound of surprise from Ryan when Jeremy steadies himself, by resting warm palms on Ryan’s hips. He’s about to retract them, and murmur ‘sorry’ against his mouth, when Ryan surprises _him_ – he follows up his little noise with another, more enthusiastic one, and there’s suddenly heavy forearms resting on Jeremy’s shoulders, one moving up the skin of his neck, exploring the hair on the back on his head. Splaying across his broad trapezius muscles. Pulling him closer.

“We’ve never touched this much,” Jeremy says in amazement, temporarily breaking the kiss.

“You wanna stop?”

“I like it.”

“Me too,” Ryan says, and leans in again.

Jeremy decides that the height thing isn’t working out for him. He hates stretching up, so, logically, the most appropriate course of action is to back Ryan against the kitchen counter and make him slouch a little.

Ryan makes another noise, all high-pitched and astonished. Jeremy further concludes that he’d really like to hear it again, and again (and multiple times in the future, too, but for now, this was the present), so he comes up with some spontaneous ways to provoke it from him. Pulling Ryan’s hips against his own. Stepping closer so that their legs alternate, their belt buckles clinking together. Sliding the tip of his tongue past Ryan’s teeth and making him shiver.

It’s kind of awesome.

“Don’t ever pull that shit again,” he warns later, when they’re lying over each other on the couch. “I won’t hesitate to drop your ass if you go all righteous on me a second time.”

Ryan nods hastily. “Yeah. I’m gonna avoid that, I think.”

“Oh, and whilst we’re on the subject, I definitely fucked with your drinks at work the other week so they were harder to get out of the refrigerator. Sorry, pal.”

“I fucking _knew_ it!”

Jeremy giggles like an idiot and lets his head bump the arm of the couch. “You still love me, though.”

“I’m occasionally _fond_ of you,” Ryan grumbles. “It’s a rare lapse in judgement.”

Jeremy kisses him again, to shut him up.

“Seriously, though. No weird secrets. So the guy I’m into is basically psychic? No biggie.”

“Promise?”

He feels his eyes narrow. “There’s something else. You motherfucker.”

“It’s not serious,” Ryan says quickly. “It’s just that… You were so on board when I first told you. I didn’t think you’d be so reasonable about it.”

Jeremy shrugs, as best as he can shrug when there’s a much taller man nestled in his side, and whilst he’s supine on his tiny couch.

Ryan blinks owlishly. “It’s just, well, yeah,” he says, not really saying much at all, “you were kind of the first person I’ve ever told. So… thank you.”

“I’m honoured.”

“Shhhhh,” says Ryan, clearly embarrassed. He buries his face in Jeremy’s neck until both of them are squirming and laughing.

“This is so gay. We’d better kill some zombies to feel manly again.”

“Oh, hell no,” Ryan grins, “I’ll kill zombies _and_ be gay. The perks of being bisexual are that you don’t _have_ to pick a side.”

Jeremy’s pretty sure he’s going to fall for this man. Hard.

 

* * *

 

They agree to keep it on the down-low at work, just in case, until they make a proper plan of action. Not a word is said about it. No touching. No more interaction than necessary.

And then, in the second week of February, Project Three-One-Four blows everything out of the water.

Kind of, anyway. It takes more of an approach along the lines of ‘launching the situation across the room to messily spray the office’. Shenanigans!

Even just the fitting of the thing is incredible. Jack films them whilst Gavin’s on set at the podcast. It’s like a covert operation, the way Marcus creeps in and installs their chaotic contraption, and it’s _genius_. He’d assembled it in the workshop, and when opportunity strikes, he quickly attaches it to the door of the Achievement Hunter office.

“You know in, like, the Teen Choice Awards?” Trevor says. “We figured out a recipe for the slime that wasn’t gonna blind anyone or stain anything. At first we thought, hey, let’s pie Gavin in the face. But we really don’t need any more food trodden into the carpet. _Then_ we considered food dye or something, but that probably… wouldn’t be great for his sight.”

“So what we have here,” Ryan adds, with the camera trained on him, “is a little something I imagined, which Marcus helped to bring to life… It’s almost like, a mechanised shaving mirror, on one of those scissor extender systems. Except it has tension, so that’s a lot of potential energy. And when Gavin comes back and opens the door… The dish on the end, which is full of slime, is going to hit him in the face.”

“You’re sure it’s not gonna stain his clothes or ruin his phone?”

“Nope,” he says flat out. “No guarantee. Let’s hope he gets lucky.”

Michael twangs the metal cord that would activate the sliming. “His phone’s already a piece of shit. I hope he throws up.”

Geoff just sits there gleefully, emitting owl hooting every now and then when he imagines too vividly what Gavin’s face would look like.

And, god, is it a picture. Lindsay’s sitting on one of the white couches in the hallway texting when Gavin strides by, and they exchange brief greetings, before--

“Hey, Jack?” Gavin asks,

pulling open the door,

and getting a ridiculously thick face mask of pastel-green slime.

Everyone starts spluttering; Geoff with hysterics, Jack with wheezes, and poor Gavin with a mouthful of goo. “That’s what you get, asshole!” Geoff shrieks, sinking to his knees on the floor with the stress of his laughter, “fuck you and your scotch tape prank!”

“ _Shenanigans_!” Michael crows. He holds out the trash can so Gavin can gag and wipe his eyes.

“How— _How_?!”

Jeremy’s abs hurt.

“Who did this?! I can’t believe--”

“It was Marcus, you idiot! You even came with us to get supplies! We minimised the hidden cameras and took you with us so you wouldn’t suspect anything, and it was _perfect_!”

Lindsay wipes tears from her eyes and rubs Gavin’s back as he spits slime into the trash. “Maybe we should use a real pie next time,” she weeps.

“Now _that’s_ a fuckin’ idea! Screw the carpet, who can we get next? Maybe Joel. Oh, my god, Ryan, do you think we can modify this to hold a pie tin--?”

And Michael stops in his tracks, along with everyone else.

Jeremy and Ryan have _lost it_. They’re clinging to each other just to stay upright – Jeremy can’t breathe, Ryan sounds like a wounded sealion, hell, he’s pretty sure he’s going to have weird stretches in the fabric of his shirt because they’re tangled up so tightly.

Jack gapes from behind the camera. His mouth looks like it’s trying to form Ryan’s name, but there’s nothing audible coming out.

“Oh my god,” Geoff says bluntly, “you motherfuckers ruined it. We've gotta cut _all_ of this.”

It should be sobering – Gavin’s squinty grin as he realizes what’s going on, Trevor’s hand over his mouth, and Lindsay, filming from the doorway, recording a B-roll of footage for the Shenanigans episode.

But it’s not in the slightest. Jeremy catches his breath, and he doesn’t let go.

“All you had to do was explain the initial idea!” Michael screeches, “you had one job! And now you're here all over your boyfriend! Touching and stuff! God _damnit_ , Ryan!”

“Sorry,” Ryan grins, and Gavin slams a hand on the desk, spraying little globules of slime everywhere.

“I knew it! I absolutely called it!” he says thickly.

Jeremy had forgotten Matt was hidden in the corner, amidst all the commotion, but he’s not one to let his thoughts on the matter be talked over. “Boyfriends,” he says, shaking his head, “you motherfuckers.”

“Sneaky gays,” Gavin adds.

“Oh,” says Jeremy, letting go of Ryan’s shirt and breezing towards him, “you want gay? You want—c’mere, I’ll show you _gay_. This is how JDoolz does it, _bi-style_ \--”

“No!” squeaks Gavin futilely, “Lil J, _no_!”

But it’s too late. Jeremy’s got him in an immobilizing bear hug, and he leans up to lick the slime from the side of Gavin’s face.

The whole office cringes, and the focus is _definitely_ back on Gavin’s slime predicament now. “What?” Jeremy asks cheerfully. “It’s mostly pudding mix, if I remember the recipe correctly. Tastes pretty good, actually.”

“Does it?” Michael asks, coming up on Gavin’s other side to pin him in place. He licks a stripe up the opposing cheek, ignoring Gavin’s wailing. “Oh, yeah, it’s kind of… Vanilla-ry? Although, ugh, I think I got a bit of your beard there, Gav.”

This sets off Geoff and Jack all over again, and Lindsay goes in for a close up of Gavin’s slime mask, all streaked and patchy.

Ryan catches his gaze. He’s got tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.

And Jeremy grins at this ridiculous heartthrob - who’s got a stubborn streak and eight inches of height on him – and his face hurts from smiling, and his shirt’s warped in the shape of hands, and he feels like he’s ready for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow.  
> Thanks for all of your cracking feedback, folks - I didn't expect the response this garnered and I'm so pleased to be writing a load more Jeremwood material this summer! Cheers :0


	4. Epilogue

“So how long has it been? Like, more than a year?”

“Uh,” says Ryan, “the Shenanigans came out in February maybe? Yeah, sixteen months, maybe.”

“Here’s the thing,” says Michael, turning to the camera. “Every fucking week we’ve got people commenting like, ‘ _when are you gonna release the stretch goal video from Extra Life Sixteen?_ ’ and I’m like, is this Minecraft video the right place to ask that?”

Jack pokes his head into frame. The camera follows him. “For those of you who don’t know,” he adds, “during the Extra Life stream we hit a stretch goal to release an extended edition of the video where we slimed Gavin in the face, and we hinted it had something _pretty_ important hidden in it.”

“Is it hidden, though?” asks Michael skeptically, “it’s been well-hidden since, but… it’s pretty clear in it. It’s just the audience who don’t know, now.”

“When are we releasing it? After the show, or…?”

“I think we should do it now,” Jeremy says.

He feels sick with nervousness. It’s emanating from him in the occasional breathy laugh, too high to be considered calm, and a fidgeting hand fiddling with a shot glass. Off Topic usually doesn’t affect him in this way, and he’s trying to be cool about it – he is cool with it, he wants to tell the audience about him and Ryan, but it’s still frying his nerves in a way that’s tantamount to four mugs of coffee before an important test. Ryan’s to his left, on the end, and Jack, Michael, and Geoff are on his right. He’s heard Lindsay’s at home waiting to tell Baby Jones that _Mom and Dad’s friends Ryan and Jeremy are bumping nasties, kiddo_ , and there are so many people in the wings who just started holding their breath, oh god.

Michael’s eyebrows practically shoot into his hairline. “ _Now?_ Are you sure?”

“We can watch Twitter blow up. It’ll be fun.”

He sounds a little braver than he’s feeling.

“It’s all ready to go?” Geoff asks, leaning to call off-set. “Will you let us know when you put it up…? Okay, cool, guys, they’re gonna do it now. Uh-huh, _now_.”

“Can we get it on screen?”

Ryan locks eyes with Jeremy and smiles his little lop-sided smile, like he’s trying to say, _we’ve got this_.

Or: _we’re gonna be fine._

Or, perhaps:

_I love you._

“It’s all ready!” says Jack jubilantly, “it’s going up on YouTube and you can watch it live, with us, here on Off Topic--”

“Audio friendly my _ass_ \--”

“Shh,” says Geoff, faux-annoyed, and Jeremy misses the sounds of fighting on his right, because he’s too busy staring at Ryan, distracted entirely by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

It starts to play, on every screen.

The original cut had been as Michael was celebrating the concept of real pies, the carpet be damned: _“Now that’s a fuckin’ idea! …Oh, my god, Ryan, do you think we can modify this to hold a pie tin--?”_

And then the camera focused on him losing his train of thought, with his face dropping almost comically. Everyone goes silent.

And Jeremy looks around to see it’s not just the video which is startling people. Most of his colleagues haven’t seen this footage before – though it might be quietly common knowledge that he and Ryan have been an item for some time, it’s generally not discussed explicitly. He spots Jon Risinger and Ashley Jenkins sharing a glance in the audience.

On screen, Jack points the camera shakily at Jeremy and Ryan. Past-Jeremy has green hair, where now he has blue; past-Ry hasn’t wound in his personal space bubble just yet. Despite this, he’s got a hand bunched in the front of Jeremy’s shirt and an arm slung over his shoulders; Jeremy’s palm is splayed over Ryan’s ribcage, heaving in time to their violent hysterics. There’s a sharp inhale from Jack, which is probably only picked up because he’s in close proximity from behind the camera.

“ _Oh my god,_ ” says Geoff flatly, “ _y_ _ou motherfuckers ruined it. We've gotta cut_ _all _ _of this._ ”

And Jack, to his credit, realises he has to catch everyone’s reactions. It’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop, or a blob of goo _drip_ , which earns the shocked past-Gavin a laugh from the present-day. Trevor’s got a hand clamped over his jaw, but he’s definitely trying not to smile. Lindsay’s forgotten to close her mouth in her enthusiasm to capture the moment on the B-roll footage.

It’s quite odd, seeing his past reaction to their astonished reactions, because – and this is important – neither of them move to let go. He can remember _doing_ it, but it’s a totally different thing to actually _witness_ the decision the two of them make. It’s conscious. It’s a visible, provoked reply. If the action was a phrase, it’d be ‘ _ah, fuck it’_. So they hang on.

It kicks off when everyone catches their breath.

 _“All you had to do was explain the initial idea! You had one job! And now you're here all over your boyfriend! Touching and stuff! God_ _damnit_ _, Ryan!”_

“ _Sorry_ ,” Ryan grins at Michael.

He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Despite his trepidation, the Jeremy that’s sitting alongside _his_ Ryan on the Off Topic set snorts quietly.

Goo Gavin slams a hand on the desk, spraying little globules of slime everywhere. “ _I knew it! I absolutely called it!_ ” he says thickly—

“ _Boyfriends_ ,” Matt says, vaguely impressed, “ _you motherfuckers."_

 _“Sneaky gays,”_ Gavin adds.

“ _Oh_ ,” smirks Jeremy, abandoning Ryan and breezing towards his pranked co-worker, “ _you want gay? You want—c’mere, I’ll show you gay. This is how JDoolz does it, bi-style--_ ”

 _“No! Lil J,_ _no_ _\--!”_

And that first squeak signifies where the video was originally cut to. Jeremy licks a stripe up Gavin’s face and comments on the pudding taste, which the audience have all seen before, and the cast and staff and crew have all seen before, but now—

He spots the camera switch back to catch their reactions. Michael shrugs his arms widely, and says, “now we’re all on the same page. That’s when Ryan and Jeremy came out to us all, for  _t_ _he first time_.”

He can’t breathe. He keeps staring at the table, with all the various dents and scratches etched into it, and his hand is shaking as it plays with the damn shot glass. He spins it and spins it and spins it and--

and Ryan’s fingers cover his, and still them.

Jeremy looks up; Ryan’s slightly pink, and he’s probably just as scared shitless as his partner, but the unusual display of affection speaks way more strongly than the two ever could in the moment.

Someone in the wings starts clapping. He spots Trevor, in the audience, applauding with the biggest damn smile on his face, and everyone starts following suit – Gavin cheers loudly and sets off Geoff, and Michael starts banging on the table, and he spots several sets of wincing faces in the sound booth.

And Ryan’s holding his hand.

The tweets are gonna flood the hashtags in all caps; Tumblr’s gonna go apeshit; he’s also ninety percent sure Matt will email him a new fanfiction every week for the rest of time. But Ryan’s holding his hand. And everything’s looking pretty darn good.

“You gonna be okay?” Gavin asks them after the show.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, bumping his and Ryan’s feet together under the table; Ryan downs his Diet Coke and grins. “I think we’re gonna be fine, y’know.”

“Don’t you crazy kids get caught up in any bad shit,” Geoff tells them. As he ambles by, he claps Jeremy on the shoulder.

Ryan shrugs. “We’re in for a whole world of crap. It’s nothing Rooster Teeth hasn’t done before.”

It’s in the way he says it; so much determination, in such a simple sentence.

Jeremy’s seriously in love with this man.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs in Ryan’s ear. As they pass the staff who are heading to On The Spot right after the podcast, Michael salutes them, and Gavin waves enthusiastically.

“Good job, boi!”

“Thanks, Gav. See you tomorrow.”

He gets a couple handshakes as he leaves from other staff members; Marcus comes up to him and grins, as well as Jon and Burnie. Hell, even Matt Hullum emerges from the shadows to congratulate them. Jeremy notes with appreciation how everyone approaches him, rather than Ryan, who’s still a little uncertain when it comes to physical touch.

He’s gotten a lot more confident in the last eighteen months, though.

His phone buzzes with a message: **we should celebrate** _,_ says Lindsay. **let’s have a get together?**

God, he wishes he could bottle up and keep the tightness in his chest when Ryan looks at him adoringly: **that sounds awesome,** he texts back, letting the taller man peer over his shoulder _._ **Maybe we should have a barbeque.**

 

They drive back to Jeremy’s apartment in comfortable silence. Finding a new place to live that’s close to work is proving a little difficult, but it’s a work in progress. They’re basically spending their time living between Ryan’s house and Jeremy’s teeny apartment anyway. It still makes him grin from ear to ear when he thinks about how he brought it up.

_“So, like, you know how you basically live here already--?”_

_“Yes,”_ Ryan had said instantly, _“absolutely yes. If you’re gonna suggest finding somewhere, then_ _yes_ _.”_

They’re just about to pull into the drive, but Ryan notices the memory playing on the corner of his lips: “what are you so happy about?”

Jeremy considers saying something like _ah, I’m being a secret-smile weirdo_ , or _your profile in the darkness of the car makes you look a lot more intimidating than you actually are_ , but he decides to come clean with the truth instead.

“You.”

Ryan huffs. “Gay.”

“Yup. Gay for you.”

He wonders how everything worked out as well as it did, with Ryan trying to hide his amusement as they pull up in front of Jeremy’s place. How he can hang their keys together by the door, or steal the man’s toiletries and have it be expected instead of surprising now. How they bought a new fucking bed together as a couple. How the staff at their job celebrate them.

How he can lie in bed next a guy who, even with his reserved charm and his genius ideas and his jarringly charismatic camera presence, he simply got off on the wrong foot with.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?” he asks.

It’s not second thoughts. It’s merely curiosity; _I’m glad we did this, but it’s got a lot of risks._

“When have we ever had good ones?” Ryan mumbles into the duvet.

True. Jeremy chuckles and itches at his beard sleepily.

But then Ryan rolls over: “no,” he corrects himself, more softly. “I don’t think this was a bad idea. It’s been ages, and we talked about it, and we were ready and we _promised_. And I love you.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, in awe. “ _Yeah_. I love you too.”

The world is different when they crawl into bed, but it’s still the same when they wake up together. Jeremy stares at the ceiling, enjoying the tranquillity; when he hears stirring on his left, he turns over and gazes incredulously at the physical manifestation of luckiness.

The amber dawn soaking through the curtains is dancing across Ryan's features. His eyelashes flicker, and the older man looks up through them, at _him_. He's framed by bedsheets and the early morning sun, and he really needs to tidy up his stubble.

Hazel eyes meet blue. Jeremy reaches out to touch his face, just because he can, just to see if this is real.

It’s real.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I haven’t had any brain stuff since that day in the kitchen.”

“…Really?”

“Nah. Told you it felt like the last one. Guess the future’s all on track.”

Ryan shifts, adjusting his pillow. “…I met the new intern yesterday.”

“Oh, really?” Jeremy says, not really understanding why this is significant or relevant. “Uh… Emma. Erin. Emily?”

“Erica,” Ryan corrects.

“That’s it.”

He shifts again, like he’s nervous: “even shook her hand.”

“What?” says Jeremy. He’s fully awake now, rolling over so he’s facing his partner dead on. “That’s awesome, Ry, I’m so proud of you. Is she gonna work out?”

He should know that something’s up when the corners of Ryan’s mouth twitch. “Oh, she’s gonna work out. I think she’s gonna be around for a long time… She’s, uh. She’s even at the barbeque.”

“ _The_ barbeque? Dude, wicked.”

“Yeah. We see her outside on the way to the car.”

…‘ _We'_.

His heart lurches.

“She gives you a hug, and she gives me a hug, and then we set off--”

Jeremy sits up. “I’m at the barbeque…?” he asks slowly.

“Yup.”

“Me? I’m there?”

“I think you’re at a lot of them over the course of time,” Ryan says drily. He smiles, like it’s a confession of something. “You were probably right, way back when, y’know. It’s a chance for me to see what happens without ‘seeing what happens’. But it’s still pretty cool that I get to see all the stuff in the middle.”

“You bastard. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away,” Jeremy teases.

“Sorry. I’ll make you some apology pancakes.”

Ryan heads downstairs after a brief interlude for excited kissing, and Jeremy thinks about the state of his world as he pulls on a shirt. It was totally outside of the scale of weird. There were bookends, sure: how they’d gone from ‘don’t touch me’, to ‘c’mere, Jere, look how many views we got’. From Ryan secretly allowing accidental touches from their co-workers, totally touch-starved, to openly hugging Meg on The Know. Avoidance and hiding in the face of visions, to conventions and weekly shopping trips and fan meet-ups and, god, even stage events.

And Jeremy? Jeremy’s gone from internalising all of his shit, to spelling it out when he needs some feedback on it. No more self-deprecation. No more wondering if he’s good enough. Just ask, buddy, someone’ll tell you straight-up.

“We’ve got four hundred thousand hits already,” Ryan calls. Jeremy can smell pancakes, and wonders if they have any of those tiny raspberries in the house.

It’s not the end or the beginning which are the important bits. It’s all the stuff in between that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of your kind words and comments - I'm absolutely blown away by how many of you let me know you were enjoying it! I'm planning on writing a whole bunch more J/R fics this summer, so keep an eye out... >u<
> 
> Come talk to me at [@futureboy-ao3](http://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com) on tumblr. ^_^
> 
> Cheers for reading/kudos-ing/commenting/bookmarking, folks.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-d by [happyexothermicreaction](http://happyexothermicreaction.tumblr.com/). Can't thank them enough!


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